Having a daughter comes with many responsibilities for a father. 

Unlike sons, who you can just chuck out in the backyard where they can play in mud pits and teach themselves about the world, daughters are supposed be raised as refined human beings. 

This means dance class. Dance is all about subtlety, grace and beauty, so of course I don’t get it. 

I know this isn’t a popular thing to say right now, but men and women are different. Women understand dance class, whereas men understand MMA fighting. Both are athletic events that are judged. One features guys in their underwear punching each other in the back of the head, and the other keeps the rhinestone industry afloat. 

Dance is dignified, so it’s hard for a guy like me to understand unless you explain it like this — “Lightsaber fights in Star Wars movies are choreographed like a dance.”

Ah, ha! Now I get it.  

I still don’t understand why we’re buying dance outfits that will be worn once instead of just letting the girls perform in sweatpants.

Any smart man knows not to ask why a leotard with sparkles costs as much as a good pair of jeans, a shotgun and a trip to a good taxidermist. We just accept it. 

“It’s like a team uniform, you wouldn’t expect Cubs, the Marines or Postal Service not to wear a uniform would you?”

Now I get it. 

The culmination of dance class is the recital. The dance recital is held up by some religions as empirical proof that God is in fact a woman and She is angry at men. 

I enjoy watching my daughter dance because she’s my daughter. I know this because all the paternity tests say so and she loves Star Wars. 

So I do enjoy seeing how she’s progressed, and gained the ability to change her clothes 37 times in a two-hour span. 

It’s just all the other dancers …  Well to be honest men’s minds start to wander. Here’s a selection of thoughts I had during the last recital — 

• How long is this? I came late for a reason and they haven’t even got past the first number. I’m missing the world corn hole championship for this. 

• Hey, that girl’s outfit makes her look kind of like Aquaman, and not cool Jason Momoa Aquaman. No, she looks like the Aquaman from the Superfriends cartoon. I bet the Wonder Twins never had to go to a dance recital.

• Maybe I can spot some bats flying above the proscenium. What the heck is a proscenium? 

• Oh, look there’s a boy. I wonder how they conned him into this? Why would a teenaged boy want to be in dance? That seems pretty lame, hanging out with pretty girls in skimpy outfits for hours at time … wait a minute … why didn’t I take dance class when I was a teenaged boy?

• Oh good here comes the tiny dancers. Next to watching my kid, this is the best part. Look, that one is picking her nose.  That other one is crying. Those two are hugging each other. That poor dance instructor is trying space them out. I know she has tried very hard, but little girls listen to instructions about as well as alley cats, or little boys for that matter. 

• Oh man, it’s the normal sized dancers again, time to argue with someone on Facebook. Oh wait, that’s my daughter’s group, I better pay attention. Where is she? Never mind, false alarm, she’s in the next group. Or is that one her? Which one is my daughter? They’re all dressed the same. I know she has brown hair …  

Don’t get me wrong; I’m very pro-dance. I just think it’d be better with lightsabers.

Follow David Anderson on 

Twitter at twitter.com/cruizerdave

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