I’m eating an un-toasted bagel and drinking burnt black coffee, crouched behind a banquet-style folding table covered with a standard polyester hotel tablecloth; on top piles of merchandise stacked in neat piles is ready to be pillaged by hundreds of dance moms.
I have four hours of “downtime” until I teach a master class; with hundreds of eager young dancers––all just like I used to be: talented, idealistic, and hungry for fame.
If they only knew that the road to fame is paved in a swirly-mustard patterned stained ballroom carpet at [NAME ANY POPULAR HOTEL ACROSS THE COUNTRY].
Not that I’m complaining, I have loved every moment of my career––and I continue to remain grateful for every opportunity I get; sometimes they come with red-carpet treatment, and sometimes you’re just delighted that the carpet doesn’t have (many) unidentifiable red stains.
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