Apparently I like to waste money on things I can do myself, so I played along with the dance photos thing again this year. I knew going in that I would be all MEH about the results, but whatever. I decided to hand over the minimum amount and soldier through the process.
For the record, the main reason I played along is because Alexis gets all Goo-Goo-Gaa-Gaa over the group photos. It's like she knows she's going to need photographic proof that she's not the only one who wore that foofy, glitter-covered tutu and did it with a smile on her face.
Good planning, kid.
When photo day arrived, I was slapped in the face with the reminder that other dance moms take the whole photo thing WAY more seriously than I do. Fake eyelashes, people. FAKE EYELASHES. ON A SEVEN-YEAR OLD. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it, but I did. Makeup and hair spray and fake eyelashes, oh my!
I didn't even remember to comb Alexis' hair. So there's that.
Regardless, she happily posed for strangers and oozed joy all the place because dressing up in fishnet and lamé is apparently really very exciting if your name rhymes with Bafexis.
A few weeks went by and then, finally, it was time to preview the photos.
Now, as someone who sometimes gets paid to take photographs of people, I'm going to tell you there is no damn reason in the world why the photographer needed to make us take turns previewing the photos on a laptop in the dance office. I could have done it from the comfort of my home without it costing him any more than it did that way. But, WHATEVER. If that floats his boat, fine. Float away, homeslice.
(I'm pretending that I'm not super annoyed that I signed in to view the photos a solid two and a half hours before it was finally my turn. Let's just pretend I was happy that Alexis was completely done with her classes and was therefore able to preview them with me. A happy accident! Or something. FLOAT ON, HOMESLICE.)
Alexis and I sat down in front of that tiny laptop and the photographer prepared his fancy little slideshow. You know, the one that was carefully designed to encourage me to buy ALL OF THE THINGS. He carefully hit the play button and then backed up, surely so he could marvel at his magical purchasing encouraging skills.
Then it happened.
Noise. Noise came out of the laptop.
Twangy noise.
For some reason, the photographer thought it would be a GREAT idea to play a country song as the photos faded from one to another.
I don't much care what kind of music you like, but I DO NOT LIKE COUNTRY MUSIC. It's all there was while I was growing up in North Dakota, so my patience for it ran out by the time I was about 10 years old. By the time I was 15, I had learned to totally and completely mentally block it out. Like, I hear two notes and my brain goes LAAA LAAAA LAAAA I CAN'T HEAR YOU LAAAAA LAAAAA LAAAAA.
So what I'm saying is that I noticed it was country, turned deaf, and then happily resumed looking at the photos. No big deal!
Alexis, however, apparently has thoughts and feelings and opinions. "Momma, what is that noise?" she asked.
I stifled maniacal laughter. Noise! Ha!
"What? The music?" I asked. As if I didn't know. Shhhhhh!
"Momma, that's not music. That's just awful," she loudly said.
I'm going to call that genetics right there and it is fantastic.
