Sometimes we are our own worst enemy. Thinking we’re not good enough. Thinking we need more of this and less of that before we can begin to pursue our dreams. Certainly there are things we should do to prepare. But don’t allow perfection to be a procrastination tool, or you may never take the plunge. There comes a time when you are going to have to face your fear, throw caution to the wind, and go for it! Read below to find out how I danced past my excuses and jumped in with both feet. New York City, here we come!

Please enjoy this excerpt from

Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl’s Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes

by Kristi Lynn Davis

New York City, August 9, 2002
My dance teacher, Priscilla, was right: I was good enough to be a professional, I admitted to myself, as I shifted to a more comfortable position in my airplane seat. The clues had been there all along. I never did take Priscilla up on her offer, opting for college instead. But what if I had? How might my life have turned out differently? Regardless, I made it. Even though I didn’t attend a prestigious conservatory of dance or some phenomenal university known for its musical theatre program. Even though I didn’t apprentice with the American Ballet Theatre or study under the tutelage of a world-renowned instructor. On the contrary, the core of my dance schooling came from Dolly Dinkle studios, and it was pretty good training, as it turns out. After all, I managed to milk all my childhood dance lessons enough to create a pretty healthy career and recoup my parents’ sizable investment.

The pilot’s voice on the intercom jolted me back to the present. “Flight attendants, prepare for landing.” Giving an imaginary salute to all my dance teachers, I opened my eyes just as the island of Manhattan was coming into view. New York City: the birthplace of my showbiz career and now, it appeared, the final resting place as well. I had come full circle, and this symbolic sense of completion was not lost on me.

After disembarking, I forged my way through the hustle and bustle of JFK and grabbed a cab to my dear old college friend Jenny’s house in Astoria, Queens, where I’d be staying. “Hot enough for ya, today?” I said, trying to make cheerful small talk with the foreign cabbie. “That sun’s been brutal all week,” he replied shaking his head. I recalled the hot July day that had greeted me when I first came to New York fresh out of college.

The streets of Astoria were familiar, but I felt like an entirely different person than I did during my maiden voyage to Queens. It was hard to believe fifteen years had passed since my first professional dance gig in this most infamous of cities. So much has happened to New York, and so much has happened to me, I marveled, since that fateful summer in 1987 when I began my journey into show business.

Act 1, Scene 1: Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple
It’s a miracle that I ever set foot in New York to begin with. Growing up in suburban southeast Michigan, with parents farm-raised in Iowa, I wasn’t exactly familiar with the Big City. I was so terrified of the place, in fact, that when my father traveled there once for a business trip, I truly feared for his life. When Dad boasted that he had gone to see A Chorus Line on Broadway, I couldn’t believe he would risk leaving his hotel room any more than was absolutely necessary. I thanked God he returned home without having been mugged or worse. My family rarely even ventured to nearby Detroit, at the time dubbed “the murder capital of America,” as my mother didn’t want to put us in danger. Coming from risk-averse progenitors and a Waspy upbringing, New York City was sure to be a culture shock.

Consequently, I headed off to the Big Apple for a trial week to see if I really wanted to make the move. Like Frank Sinatra sang in the famous tune “New York, New York,” I, too, figured, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” Jenny had generously invited me to stay with her in Astoria, Queens, wherever that was. Her old-fashioned apartment building with the squeaky stairs and interior dark wood features seemed so vintage New York. I was enthralled by her hippy, artsy, street-smart fashion and decorating style.

In addition to providing a couch for me to crash on, Jenny offered free consulting services as well. “The first thing we need to do is look in Backstage to find you an audition,” Jenny ordered, holding up that week’s paper. Backstage, I learned, was the most indispensable periodical known to entertainers. This Grand-Daddy of weekly publications listed all kinds of auditions for singers, actors, dancers, and musicians. Even the Broadway auditions were listed there!

We scoured the pages and finally found what Jenny determined to be a suitable match: “Here’s a tap dance show in Switzerland, and the audition is tomorrow. It’s perfect,” she exclaimed triumphantly. As a kid, I had taken tap lessons for about six years, but it had been just about that long since my last hoofing session. “I haven’t tapped in forever, Jen. I don’t even own tap shoes anymore,” I argued. But Jenny was not about to take “no” for an answer. “Big deal. You can buy tap shoes and take a tap class before the audition to get a little practice in. Did you bring a headshot?” “You mean one of those close-up photos of your face like actors have? No. I don’t have one,” I responded, wondering if this crazy experiment was a waste of time. “We’ll type up a resume for you. You can explain that you were just in town visiting and not planning to audition until you saw the notice. Make up some excuse. You’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I was determined to do the audition anyway. For despite feeling extremely nervous and doubtful, I was exhilarated by the challenge and the remote possibility of getting the job. It was like my chance at winning the lottery, and I couldn’t win if I didn’t play the game. Jenny helped me construct my resume. Filling an entire eight-by-eleven-inch page was a challenge. We included every bit of dance training I’d had plus the college performances and high school musicals I’d done, hoping my amateur achievements would sound professional. Now what I really needed was some of Jenny’s ovaries-to-the-wall personality to rub off on me so I could pull off this charade.

The next day, mustering up every ounce of courage I had, I rode the subway into Manhattan with Jenny for the big day. She went off to work, and I was left to fend for myself with nothing but a map and directions to Capezios, the world-famous dance supply store on Broadway and 51st Street, where I was supposed to buy a pair of tap shoes. Afterwards, if all went as planned, I would have just enough time to get to Steps, one of New York’s most popular dance studios, on Broadway and 74th, to take a tap class before making my way down to Broadway Dance Center on 45th Street and 5th Avenue for the audition.

After getting my bearings, I began walking up Broadway. Just seeing the name on the street sign made me tingle with anticipation. BROADWAY! Soon I spotted Capezios on the second floor of the building ahead of me. Once inside, I was overwhelmed by all the colorful dance paraphernalia and the knowledge that the professional Broadway dancers buy their shoes and tights there. I was treading upon the very floor that my idols had walked before me. But there was little time to stand in awe and drool over all the magnificent dancewear. I was on a mission and time was of the essence. With the help of an experienced salesperson, I finally chose beige character shoes with two-inch heels and waited impatiently for the taps to be put on.

Purchase in hand, I quickly made my way to Steps. Being located on the third floor of the building, I had to cram into a creaky old elevator for the ride up. The heavy wrought-iron door opened, and I timidly stepped out. Immediately, my eyes became transfixed on the teachers’ headshots papering the walls. It was a who’s who of famous dancers. Anne Reinking’s picture was there! I remembered her from that 1979 movie musical All That Jazz, which I absolutely adored. In the movie, Reinking did all this cool, sexy Fosse-style jazz dancing that I often tried to imitate. Already my day’s quota of stimulation was nearly reached.

 I found myself becoming intimidated by Steps with its famous teachers, throngs of exquisite students, and multiple studios running several types of dance classes simultaneously. It took extreme willpower to make myself stay, let alone walk to the front desk and pay my drop-in fee. There was no backing out now. I put on my spanking new tap shoes and bravely took the ninety-minute tap lesson, the only test-drive before the real race. Although my performance wasn’t my best ever, I made it to the finish line nonetheless. I just hoped that this brief warm-up session would be enough to dust the spider webs off my long-dormant feet. 

Highly aware of the clock ticking down, my anxiety escalated as audition time drew near. I pried myself away from the relative safety of Steps and scurried south through the buzz of busy Broadway to Broadway Dance Center. My heartbeat quickened, and I felt infused with energy on my way to who-knows-what-might-happen? Now this was an adventure. The closer I got to Broadway Dance Center, the more my adrenaline kicked in. Time seemed to stand still with my heightened awareness of the momentousness of the occasion, as if every cell in my body knew this was the start of something life changing. Finding the place without a problem, I took a deep breath and walked in. 

“If you’re here for the audition, sign in please,” instructed a toned dancer who must have been an assistant of sorts. Hand trembling, I signed my name on the paper, and looked for a spot to sit down. The lobby was already filled with dancers stretching and chatting with their friends. I scoped the competition. Skinny, beautiful, extremely flexible. What did I expect? A bunch of overweight ogres who couldn’t touch their toes? And they all knew each other. What the heck was I doing here? I felt more nervous and insecure with each passing second. Squelching that negative voice in my head before its devilish derision derailed me, I invoked my inner cheerleader. “Get a hold of yourself, Kristi. You have nothing to lose. It’s just for fun. The outcome doesn’t matter. At least you’re doing something exciting. You can do it.”

After what seemed like an eternity, the moment finally arrived when we were called to audition. “As you hand in your headshot and resume, you will be given a number to pin onto your leotard, and then you may head into the studio,” instructed the assistant. “I just flew into town and don’t have my headshots finished yet, but here is my resume,” I babbled nervously as I made my way to the front of the line. “That’s fine,” the assistant replied. Jenny was right. It worked. I was in!

There was no time to celebrate, I soon realized, as I watched the boldest dancers quickly claim the best spots in the front of the room leaving the rest of us to scramble for any leftover space within view of the choreographer. Once the room had filled to capacity, everyone automatically spread out and shuffled about so that they could see themselves in the mirror. Every woman for herself! By the time I figured out what was happening, I was lucky to secure a spot where I could barely catch a glimpse of my right arm in the mirror. Oh well. At least I had staked my territory. Now all I had to do was stay focused for the next few hours. I just hoped the tapping wasn’t too far above my ability level, or I was going to look like a complete imbecile. “Who cares? You are never going to see these people again anyway,” I consoled myself bringing out my imaginary pom-poms for one final, silent “Rah! Rah!”

The choreographer began teaching the dance combination: a smiley, cheesy, fairly easy tap number that suited my training perfectly. “I can do this! No problem,” I realized, delighted and relieved. My confidence rose, and I laid on the charm. When the audition was over, I was on the high of highs. I was so proud of myself for going through with it and knew I had run my best race. It didn’t matter whether I made the cut or not. Those other dancers who had frightened me so weren’t that much better than I was after all.

Lo and behold, after a few days, I received the good news: I got the gig! Maybe I do have enough talent to be a dancer, I conceded. Who knew?

You do have what it takes. Believe in yourself, and take the first step. Today. It’ll be the start of something life-changing. Thanks for reading. Boogie back next week for more Big Apple escapades.

Shuffle ball change on,

Kristi