Dance Party

I recently stumbled upon a  2014 Washington Post article detailing how Hillary Clinton has not driven a car since 1996.  It seems unlikely, for the same reasons laid out in the Post story, that she has driven in the ensuing two years.  This is only mildly surprising considering as a former First Lady she is under constant Secret Service protection.  Although, you would think at some point she, or anyone in a similar position, would tell Agent Earpiece to hop in the passenger seat and pass the keys.  Driving is too much fun to pass on for twenty years.  Not driving in two decades illustrates, in a minor way, how out of a touch Clinton, like most powerful politicians, is with the everyday existence of their constituents.  America, you need a candidate that's going to keep it real.  Donald Trump?  Hardly.  Whether he's actually worth one billion or ten billion, he's still at least a billion ahead of most of us.  Of all the deceptions he's pulled off during this long con he calls a campaign, convincing millions of hard working regular Joes that he has their back is perhaps the most impressive.  The closest Trump gets to relating to those Joes is bilking them out of thousands of dollars for his "University" or suing them so he doesn't have to pay for contracting work they have completed on his buildings.

No, America, neither Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump have the desire to understand your experience.  Guess what?  You're in luck.  I know a guy that drives himself (in a car that he and his wife paid for, no less).  He cuts his own grass, packs his own lunch (remember, make the peanut butter pocket to lock in the jelly), and drinks beer from a can.  He sometimes argues with his wife and kid.  He often yells at the screen during televised sporting events.  Yep, he's real.  He is me and I am him.  And I/him/me/he/Hailey4America am ready to help. I know how you live, what you need, and what you want.  Better yet, I'm willing to listen to what you have to say.  Yes, I'm an average Joe.  But I'm an average Joe with specific experience that, while hardly unique, makes me qualified to lead:  I'm a Dance Dad.

Hear me out.  I have distinct skills forged in the fiery cauldron of this Dance Dad life:

*Peace Keeper (AKA Knowing where my bread is buttered):  The Future First Lady is a kick-ass Dance Mom in her own right, but by taking Grace to classes during the week, I can cross at least one thing off Amanda's weekend to-do list.

* Handling Tense, Last-Minute Negotiations:  Arguing about which leotard/tutu combo The Girl needs or wants to wear never occurs an hour before class, only when we are already supposed to be in the car.

*Fiscal Responsibility:  I finally wised up and learned that I can take the same, if not better, photos than the professional portraits on Picture Day.  And mine are free! 

*Good Judgement:  The Future First Lady and I (okay, we all know it was Amanda that did all the legwork) selected a dance studio with a non-competitive environment that does not expect young girls to be all tarted up for the recital.

*Demonstrating a willingness to accept help:  The other girls' moms have bailed me out a few times over the last five years.  They've helped by going in the changing room or ladies' restroom, fixing Grace's hair or the unfortunate moment when I helped Grace, then age three, put her costume on backwards exposing WAY too much of her toddler chest. 

*Patience:  Each Tuesday I spend an hour or two in the waiting room while Grace dances.  There are long periods of waiting periodically interrupted by a gaggle of cart-wheeling seven-year-old girls chatting, giggling, and shouting as they change their shoes.  I know patience.

*Details:  Even though Grace is old enough to responsibly pack her own gear, if I don't double check her bag, we will inevitably forget a shoe or a tutu or a water bottle or a headband or the other kind of shoe or hip hop pants or yet another kind of shoe.  See America?  It's all about the details

*Diplomacy:  The studio waiting room has televisions on which we can watch our daughters dance.  Often, instead of watching, I am chatting, reading or writing.  But you can bet when Grace asks me if I saw her doing dance move X,Y, or Z I say something like, "Of course... I'm aware... that you were dancing... in there."  Diplomacy is also required when she asks how she did.  Let's just say that Grace's name belies her actual physical realities.  She tries hard and has a blast, but her hip hop freestyle moves are less Beyoncé and more a squirrel on PCP.  Unfortunately, I think she inherited my dance floor flow instead of her mother's.  Though, she is still a much better dancer than Corey Feldman. Hopefully she'll grow into her feet and become smooth like her mama.  Until then, Diplomacy!

America, we're in this together.  Just a few million regular Joes and Janes.  Let the billionaires argue while we save this country.  Then we can all dance down Pennsylvania Avenue together, one crazy hip hop move at a time (because my guess is they won't let me drive.)