IT'S ALL MATERIAL… UNTIL YOU WHISPER "ELITE PLATINUM" IN YOUR SLEEP

Ladies, let's be real: If Dante had wandered into a teen dance competition, he'd probably have ditched the whole fire and brimstone thing. Hell would smell like teenage sweat beads breaking through a spray tan, extra-hold aerosol products, pheromones, and the remnants of a team-mauled Cinnabon.

It started innocently enough—a day trip to Morristown, NJ, for my daughter's dance competition. A few rhinestones, some quick changes, a participation trophy.

That was the dream.

That was the lie.

Arrival

It's a gorgeous spring morning. A beautiful day for comp! As I cross the threshold into the musty, mid-century high school, I immediately feel myself losing all grip on reality. Is it the faded linoleum? The flickering fluorescents? The ripped pleather sofas interspersed with wooden desks that creak from years of fighting with a sudsy mop? It all feels vaguely post-apocalyptic, but also a touch energizing. I may be baffled - we all are - but I'm valiantly sprinting toward a start time that—let’s be honest—was scheduled for an hour ago.

What is time at a dance comp anyway? It's precise, but never accurate. All I know for sure is that my phone says "No Service" and I've aged a year since parking.

It could be 7 am or 4 pm; once I've entered the arena, I'm not checking the clock. Honestly, I could be in a wormhole. My circadian rhythm was just thrust back into the Nixon Era, and likely will never recover .

Orient Yourself

Ok, I've set the scene, but have I, really? Everywhere you turn, twelve-year-olds in full face makeup and flapper sparkle are doing splits in the hallway, stretching like the fate of humanity depends on their hamstrings. Some seem anxious and can't stop moving. Others? Chill. Like they’re waiting for an Uber.

My head hurts from trying to process what I'm seeing, I've never seen combat, but I imagine it feels a lot like this—fervor, denial, hunger and lots of staging.

The Dressing Room: Pregame Purgatory

Ahhhh, the sacred prep zone: a chaotic ecosystem where lip gloss is currency and garment racks sprout from duffel bags like giant pink mushrooms. Moms like me stalk the perimeter armed with bobby pins, bronzer, and the kind of glue guns that should probably require a license.

My head spins in the dressing room; it's like Epcot on steroids, Vegas without cocktails —a cavernous melting pot where every culture gets represented, and misrepresented. One minute I'm dodging a samba headpiece, the next I'm stepping over a kimono while Kayla's mom frantically Googles "how to secure a French twist." There's piles of half-eaten Little Caesars everywhere.

If I make it out alive, without tripping over the peg leg of a tee-pee or one of the 500 rogue water bottles strewn on the floor, I'l throw myself a party.

And I'll still wake up with a head cold in 72 hours.

Backstage

I don't really know what happens back there; in truth, no one does . I've seen parents attempt entry, but invariably, they are detained. I've heard stories, but, guess what? I don't care. My only thought: is there enough time to run to 7-Eleven for a Big Gulp?!

Bathrooms

Speaking of Big Gulps, I'm a big girl -- I know hydration matters. But also: NO. Trust me. These bathrooms are biohazard zones—unattended, overused, and saturated with thousands of teenage girls cycling through mid-performance, puberty, allergy season. Honestly, I might be that mom who faints, but it seems the more prudent way to go down in infamy.

Lobby Warfare

Ugh, now I've entered the lion's den -- a marketplace of literal and figurative hot air, caffeine, sequins, and passive aggression. Two moms to my right engage in what sounds like polite leotard discourse, but the subtext is vintage Heathers: "Oh, yours is from Etsy? That's... brave."

Behind me, a dad who looks vaguely familiar livestreams the Junior Jazz Duet category like it's the Super Bowl. His daughter apparently "slayed," thank the lord, though she might not place because "those judges have a thing against pretty girls named Julia." I may, or may not, snarl at him.

Showtime

I'm all eyes as a ten-year-old performs an interpretive solo about climate change set to a slowed-down version of "Toxic." She's wearing a gas mask. The audience (or at least the 4 people who came to see her) erupt in aggressive applause and hooting.

I judgmentally watch the judge as he scribbles something down—perhaps a note on the lithe dancer's extensions? Possibly a reminder to renew his passport.

Next up: tiny flappers doing a Charleston so fast I start to question if physics is real. I'm distracted by a gaggle of dance moms in matching trucker hats filtering into the aisle behind me; they are brainstorming on how to bring back sexy Jazz. I contemplate contributing. Alas, I do not.

The Awards

I'm pretty much delirious by now, but two hours of the most needlessly complex awards system since the Electoral College seems a bit much, no?! High Platinums, Elite Supremes, Double Elite Sapphires... No one knows what they mean. And I already might have air-pods in.

Still, the emcee rattles on, like a caffeinated game show host who's been trapped here since 2011. Every routine was "so incredible," every dancer "so talented," yet only ONE studio gets called up 37 times. Not that I'm counting...

The Aftermath

Somehow, amidst the glitter and the near mayhem, I have a moment of clarity:

This isn't just a competition. It's a microcosm of the world—equal parts ambition, overinvestment, and emotional whiplash.

And yet... it works. The kids genuinely care. They leap, spin, fall, get back up. They cheer for each other with wild abandon, even when someone messes up or someone else wins. For all the chaos, there's true camaraderie and an undercurrent of joy.

Real, sweaty, exhausted joy.

Would I go back? Probably not.

Unless my kid makes Nationals. Then I'll see you in Orlando. I'll be the one in the folding chair, pushing through tears, pale from near asphyxiation by Elnett, wondering—again—how this became my life.

Because of course: It's all material.