You just snapped your leg at the knee. Shannon told you she could never go out with a boy who couldn’t dance, so you took classes. At first it was a hard road, then you broke through and started showing them something. Before long you were getting cast for touring companies, then summer stock, then out-of-towners, then Broadway, until finally you were the guarantee that a show would open and never close. But you still weren’t getting what you got into the game for.
“Gotta go back to Ann Arbor,” you told your producers. They checked their contract and there was a Shannon clause.
You went back and put on a show specifically for her, her name in the title (“Shannon’s Show: The Proof That We’re In It To Win It”) and you put on a hell of a performance until a few seconds ago when you landed wrong and snapped your whole livelihood in two.
“I did it all for you though,” you’ll tell Shannon when she comes backstage to see how you’re doing after the show.
“Yeah well,” she’ll say. “You know the deal. Can’t dance, can’t be my boy.”
You knew the deal. Shannon will leave your dressing room without looking over her shoulder. You’ll go home and get work as an administrator at a youth organization devoted to the arts.
Happy Can’t Dance Can’t Be My Boy Day!
