For the TWOP ficathon Theme Challenge #1: Things I Thought I Knew

I do not own this character.

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Everyone has feelings.

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To the world I would say, 'Ah, but you are jealous of my joy!'

Of course, no one is really.

Jealous, that is. That is just something I tell myself now and then to ease my way.

Because if anything, around here, I am a bit of a joke. Sure, they love me and I love them, but there is no sense in ignoring the truth.

A joke.

No one wants to be a joke, even if it is out of love. But, there it is.

Que sera, sera.

And I ask you; Why can't a three-hundred pound woman who has joy teach dance?

I can. I do. I do it well.

Honey, I churn out recitals and festivals like Osmond children—shiny, clean, and in perfect step. And in large quantities.

When I was young and Elizabeth Taylor told me that she'd never seen a better rack on anyone any where as we drank martinis in Peter Lawford's pool, I had everything in the world. Everything. I danced. I acted. I was paid to do so. I had a figure Elizabeth Taylor coveted.

Me, who spoke only Spanish until I went to school in the one dress Mama made me. She, God rest her soul, took on janitorial work at the bus station to keep me in dance slippers. And I myself cleaned the bathrooms at the studio and polished the smooth wooden floor—in barter for lessons.

It was much later, of course, that The Time came.

The time.

It didn't happen all at once. It wasn't a solid cold stoppage or anything so dramatic. More the cliche denouement, really. You see, it eases in quietly and while you aren't paying attention. You miss it entirely at first until that awful Martini-filled-All-Alone-Day when you can ignore it no longer. Because your leotards are fitting differently. And you haven't talked to Elizabeth Taylor in fifteen years. And Peter Lawford is dead. And no one but you drinks martinis any more—certainly not dancers.

Nowadays the fragile little creatures just vomit their luscious curves away.

Don't they know that this time and those curves are a gift?

Of course when I was their age, I didn't know either. That part for me, as I have just explained, came later.

But do not despair, Cherie, there are other gifts in this world to be had.

There is coming to a good small town with kind people and funny children to be taught and recitals and festivals to be done. Work and friends. That is what is important now.

I do not complain.

Because there is also sitting here on a beautiful summer night and watching love affirmed, with dancing afterwards, and good food, and a cake to be sliced and shared. This is the gift now.

That, and the dignity I pretend to.

So I ignore their barely hidden glee at my rolling walk. My humorous girth. I keep my head up.

I know... I know... A little sad perhaps, but there it is: To them I am a beloved joke, a parody.

But... beloved.

So I play that role for them because it suits me to do so.

And because the alternative is to be alone.