Dapper Dads
By Paul Capalbo

Dads and daughters. The bonds that bind the two are as powerful as anything on the planet. Dads selflessly protect their
little princesses while they, in turn, exercise supernatural powers over Dad's will and his wallet through the skillful use
of pouty lips and teary eyes.

Want proof? One fateful day, at my eldest daughter's dance school, I found myself pondering a very delicate question.
Not just me, but whole gaggle of Dads with the same perplexed look on their faces. We had been posed a question from
our young, pigtailed charges: "Would we be willing to perform in a Dads-only tap dance number in their Spring recital?"
Their question was skillfully delivered complete with angelic faces contorted in full pout mode with eyes already
brimming--just in case. We all knew the outcome and, to the man agreed, reluctantly, to take dance lessons from their
instructor. Abiding by the cardinal rule of Daddyhood, keeping your promises, my thoughts raced to rationalization.
Perhaps this little "adventure" could actually be a good thing-maybe even fun?

The first night of class convinced me otherwise. Arriving at the studio, I turned the corner into the classroom only
to behold, hovering at the back of the room, the rest of the snookered Dads, nervously shuffling their feet. Suddenly
I could read minds. All thoughts were the same: "Get us out of here!" No one moved. Having ruled that option out machismo
kicked into high, desperate gear. Meaningless sports chatter broke the silence, quickly followed by the standard job
complaining. We might've even discussed our kids but they were the reason we're here in the first place, so that topic was
taboo. We grasped for any masculine lifeline amongst our surroundings of mirrors, pink walls, and dance slippers.
Eventually the conversation petered out. And then? She walked in.

Gliding atop, long, thin, muscular legs our instructor enter the room. Sporting a dark (well fitting I might add) leotard,
she clickety clacked her way to the front of the class in her black tap shoes. I glanced over to my shoebox in the corner
where my own tap shoes lay waiting, poised for the opportunity to steal my dignity. They wouldn't have to wait much longer.
She twirled around to face us, her smiling face turning grim as she measured her "recruits". It was clear she was thinking,
"How am I going to get these sorry guys to dance?" Who could blame her? We were a pitiful sight. Overweight and
under-conditioned, picturing us circling her dance floor on tippy toes must've sickened her. I know it did me.
Wait a minute! Did she just roll her eyes?

One consolation to this embarrassment was the opportunity to watch her move about the room, her graceful motion evidence of
her previous life as a Radio City Music Hall Rockette. But even this pleasant distraction became short-lived, replaced by
her apparent natural ability to inflict pain-a lot. It began with "warm ups". Masochistic rituals, which would now accompany
the start of each class. They were intended to stretch the tendons and loosen the joints (so we can just begin to dance).
Our tendons twanged like guitar strings and our distended bellies were constantly in the way. Our bodies protested each
exercise. In hibernation for years, each muscle screamed awake, some for the first time since grammar school. Hello old
friends.

I eyed the doorway seriously considering making a break for it when she directed our attention to "The Bar". It was an
innocent looking piece of equipment attached just below a huge mirror. We obediently "bellied up to it".
We were commanded to raise one leg up onto the bar. Er...what? This thing sits more than four feet above the floor.
Hmmm...I'm five and a half feet tall. Let's see...that puts my leg in the roughly the same horizontal plane as my shoulders.
I don't think it's ever been in that neighborhood before. We all froze while waiting for each other to make a move.
As if on queue we all reached for the bar, running our hands along, handyman style, checking its grain, faking a manly
measure of its craftsmanship. Hmm. Good bar. Used good wood. Coulda made this myself. All of a sudden one treacherous Dad
broke rank and launched his leg up onto the bar. Figures. It was my "best" friend, who happened to be the tallest one here.
At six foot three his effort was equivalent to me lifting my leg up on a curb. Yet there he was, glibly smiling at the rest
of us with his size 12 resting comfortably, barely level with his gut. Where's the fairness in that?
"Paul!" shouted the "Sergeant". "Put your foot on the bar!" My head snapped forward, eyes wide-a little high school
cheating-on-the-test deja vu here. I protested meekly, almost whispering, "Uh...the bar's kinda high" -hoping to strike
a compassionate chord within her. Nope. "You can do it!" she lied. The gauntlet was down. Pride was stake. Looks like the
leg's gotta go up. Gritting my teeth I launched my leg skyward, hamstrings strumming and my entire body shuttering. My foot
slammed down on the bar, wedged into place, my body was twitching like a taut, bowstring. Yet I somehow forced my best game
face and, turning to my tall neighbor, and former friend, and smiled (grimaced actually). Relief was just setting in, and I
dared to think the worst was over when she uttered those beautiful words, "Ok guys. Bring those legs down!" Until that is
spandexed Nazi barked out her next order, "Now the OTHER leg!".

Warm ups aside, the dance lessons were enlightening and downright educational. We discovered that tap dancing is one big
sobriety test: 95% balance and 5% technique. Weight distribution and physics play a huge role. Now since all of us Dads
were packing spare tires right above our belts we were stretching the bounds of natural laws and when she added the toe
touches to our startup regimen there was enough collective gastric pressure in that room to launch the Shuttle.
Despite our initial reservations it wasn't long before the four of us brought some semblance of art to the dance floor.
Determined, we practiced each novice step choreographed for us, over and over. We had soon shuffled, kipped, and toed our
way up to the recital's opening night. Doubling as stagehands was good because it occupied our minds until our performance
and when we donned our costumes for the number it transformed us from coach potatoes into a quartet of Gene Kelly
wannabes--with attitudes. Once the lights were up and we launched out, ignoring the missed steps, wrong turns and
forgotten queues.

Turns out--we were a hit! Really. The applause was loud, surprising and overwhelming. I'd like to say it our song
interpretation invoked this response but, in reality, it was the audience's interpretation of our pathetic attempt at grace.
We had merely buffooned our way to celebrity.
The irony of the experience is that what took weeks to prepare was over in three minutes. But topping it all off was a hug
around the neck from a grinning 5 year old with ribbons in her hair. Each Dad's heart melted. Gazing into their little eyes
suddenly it hits us--"Okay. What do you want, NOW?"


Paul Capalbo is a father of three daughters, the oldest of which still dances--and so does he.

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