I made my dance debut on Saturday, and I don’t even have a tutu. But like I’ve always said: It’s not the tutu on the man, it’s the man in the tutu.

Actually, I’ve never said that. To be honest, that doesn’t even make any sense. And in a further attempt to be honest, I should say that my dance debut wasn’t so much in the area of dancing as it was in the area of lifting and hauling.

Our 12-year-old daughter, Emma, competed Saturday in a dance competition in Kansas City. The competition had a name, but I have no idea what that name was. All I know is that my wife told me that I had to attend the dance competition and that they didn’t serve beer. I don’t think that’s right, by the way. The way I see it, if a man has to sit through roughly 3,294 dance routines featuring 123,585 kids he doesn’t even know, that man, at the very least, should be allowed to have a beer. Or 12.

But that’s just me.

I’ve been to several dance competitions, and I’m still not sure what goes on at them. From what I can tell, a bunch of kids my daughter’s age come out onto the stage, run around for a while and then run off the stage. While the kids are running around on the stage, people in the audience hoot and holler. I’m not sure why the people in the audience are hooting and hollering, and frankly I don’t care. What I care about is watching the dance competition without falling asleep. Or at least not snoring.

On Saturday, one of Emma’s dance routines involved her walking around the stage on her toes. I’m not sure how Emma can walk around stage on her toes, but she can. To me, walking on your toes looks painful. But evidently, walking around stage on your toes is a big deal in dance circles.

Part of Emma’s dance routine called for her to use something called a portable dancer’s bar. And no, a portable dancer’s bar does not contain liquor.

I know that now.

A portable dancer’s bar is a large device that contains two metal legs holding a heavy metal pole. The dancer’s bar allows the dancer to do dance-related stuff. My wife ordered the portable dancer’s bar several months ago, and for the past two weeks it’s been rolling around the back of my car.

I hate the portable dancer’s bar, which is unfortunate because — in my role as the father of a dancer — I have to haul the portable dancer’s bar around.

Have you ever tried to carry a portable dancer’s bar around downtown Kansas City?

Don’t.

Saturday morning, I carried the portable dancer’s bar into the music hall side of Municipal Auditorium and followed Emma to the backstage area. Once there, I sat the portable dancer’s bar down, told Emma not to fall off her toes and went off to find a comfortable seat so I could take a nap.

But before I fell asleep, I was summoned backstage. Emma told me I needed to carry the dancer’s bar on stage right before her dance.

“In front of all those people?” I asked.

“Yes,” Emma said.

“I don’t want to do that,” I said.

Emma gave me a look. It was a look that said: “Dad, don’t screw this up. If you do, I will never, ever speak to you again. If you embarrass me and cause me to fall off my toes, I will become an emotional wreck and will be smoking crack by the time I’m in junior high school and will eventually grow up and vote Republican just to get back at you.”

It was a heck of a look.

So, when the girl who danced before Emma walked off the stage, I grabbed the portable dancer’s bar and waited for the signal from the stage manager. Then I carefully carried the dancer’s bar onto the big stage and put it where Emma told me it belonged. When I got to the middle of the stage, I heard some women hoot and holler. The women who hooted and hollered were my wife and my sister. I made a mental note to kill both of them.

Once the portable dancer’s bar was in its proper place, I walked off the stage and watched Emma walk around on her toes. When Emma was finished, she walked off the stage, and I walked back out and hauled the portable dancer’s bar off the stage while the people in the audience hooted and hollered.

I didn’t screw up. Emma was happy, which meant I was happy.

I’m not sure I could have lived with myself if I had made Emma vote Republican.