Dance Instructor
Just remembered the time my (then) sixty-eight-year-old dance instructor (picture Emily Gilmore from Gilmore Girls, but with curly red hair and much wider hips) told me, all in the same breath:
that she loved me,
that if I were her daughter, she’d beat me with her cane until I cried because I wasn't respectful enough, and
that she hated every student she was currently teaching except for me; I was the only one who made her proud.
It’s been thirteen years since then, and I still think about her sometimes. She’s still alive, but no longer teaches dance. I hope she’s in a better mental space now; she was clearly going through some things back when she taught me.
that she loved me,
that if I were her daughter, she’d beat me with her cane until I cried because I wasn't respectful enough, and
that she hated every student she was currently teaching except for me; I was the only one who made her proud.
It’s been thirteen years since then, and I still think about her sometimes. She’s still alive, but no longer teaches dance. I hope she’s in a better mental space now; she was clearly going through some things back when she taught me.
