The girls take lessons.
ZF has this voice... well, they both do, but, ZF is having her voice trained to audition for one of the professional schools in New York, so, we go to voice lessons twice a week. Both of them take dance lessons... and all of the lessons are given by Russian instructors.
Any kind of Slavic instructor scares me. There was a time long ago, when leg warmers were first fashionable, that the Godmother, Miss Sof and I took aerobic class down at the YMCA. I don't remember Miss Sof showing up much.. she was the smart one back then, too. There was this instructor.. and I use this term kindly...who was from one of those countries where not only the cars, but the curtains were made of iron. Her classes made you weep with pain.... and finally, the Godmother said to her, "I take aerobics all the time, and you exhaust me!". She said this with her happy Godmother smile. Miss Czech 1967 said, "In my country, you must do 'dis. You do it, you not complain. (Silence. Glare.) Must I explain again?"
Right. We avoided her classes after that, no matter how firm our asses.
These instructors are nicer, maybe it's because they found out people have stopped throwing blood on fur coats. No one wears fur like the Russians. They have a sense of entitlement that shows when they walk down the street with the equivalent of a herd of mink on their backs and heads.
And lining their gloves. I feel so guilty knitting with lambswool, I find myself apologising when I split the strand.
On Tuesday, I took them to their group Modern Dance lesson with Hot Russian Boy (who is around 25..to me, that's 'Boy'). I felt it necessary to sit in the room and watch, you know, to make sure he didn't try anything with ZF because she is very pretty (read moving into beautiful age) and, you know, he's got the accent going and, well......
HF worries she won't do a good job, and tends to say, "I can't." They were doing some kind of stretch... one leg bent back, one out front. I'm looking to Peter to tell me what it is, because he would have adored the class, the students and Hot Russian Boy.
HRB says, "You do this" and strrrrrretches. The other three students do it easily. HF refuses. I put down my knitting and say, "It's easy, sweetpea" and slide out my chair into the stretch.
So, at this point, HRB is impressed I can stretch... I knew I was flexible, I can put my fingers under my toes when I bend over at the waist, I can also fully extend my legs with a hand in the arch of my foot... but, this stuff? I'm not that flexible and I'm old.
I'm also showing off for HRB.
I stretch, I bend, I flex, I do the damn PLOW from Yoga. I smile, I chat, I pray I don't blow out a knee.
Finally, I say, "These girls are paying for this class, and I shouldn't take your class! Thanks for your time!!" and I popped a Vicodin...God love that pain pill. I had another 4 hours later, and one at 2AM and one the next morning.
But, as far as Hot Russian Boy (who checked out my legs) knows, I can beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeend like a willow in the wind... strettttttttttch like a cat after a nap..... reeeeeeeeach like a woman with PMS for chocolate on a top shelf.
And that, my friends, is what counts.