Last Sunday night, in an act I can only describe as morbid curiosity coupled with the desire to be the coolest mom ever, I sat with my teenager girl and watched the American Music Awards.

I know, right? So cool.

Believe it or not, I had a major life epiphany. A lifetime of yearning vanished with every live musical performance. I watched Jennifer Lopez rip up the stage in an epic dance montage (forgive me, but I cursed her with cellulite and a bout of the flu. What? She can miss a day at the gym).

I saw Meghan Trainor prove that curves are sexy, but making out on live TV with your pianist: not so much. Disney’s manufactured superstar Selena Gomez dazzled on a flight of stairs, and Demi Lovato blew me away.

I held out hope though that Cold Play, a band I admire, would offer some real soul depth. That was dashed when they brought out a troupe of dancing apes, which helped me define the term “gobsmacked.” Of course, the big splash of the night was Justin Bieber’s rain dance.

But I’ve done most of these things and I am not famous. What gives? I can bust a move (and apparently some furniture) in less than 10 minutes of dancing to any kind of music, really. I am “all about that bass,” and while I’m not really into public displays of affection, I could overlook it if the pianist was wearing a tool belt.

And I regularly volunteer to have men carry me down flights of stairs while I serenade them. It’s the escalators that usually end in accidents, but hey, can’t blame a girl for trying. The dancing monkeys, well, that was just once in college – long story. I dated a science major, things got out of control, but we got everyone back in the lab, not to worry.

And I am not ashamed to admit that I have danced in a sprinkler hundreds of times, back when you could run your water without the neighbours calling the bylaw police. Good times. That’s when the dream started.

Yes, once upon a time, I too dreamed of the spotlight at a music awards show. I wanted to sing my heart out to the masses of over-priced ticket holders at stadiums, wear glittery costumes and kiss the drummer (because drummers, sigh).

I thought it was my looks that held me back, but there is surgery for that now. I thought my back-up plan to get a history degree was a deterrent, but that only limited every other aspect of my career, so that wasn’t it either.

Sure, you could argue that my absolute inability to sing a note without causing irreparable harm to anyone within a two-mile radius was a hindrance. Noted. But look at the artists on the charts. How many of them can actually sing?

Then it hit me. What all of these performers have in common is what I lack: back-up dancers. That’s the secret. I need costumed, choreographed backup dancers. Just three. They will accompany me everywhere I go. We will sashay up the aisle to the check out line, twist and slide into the post office, and break dance through the drug store. You’ll see us coming. Applaud.

Seriously. Auditions begin today. Have your agent call my agent. Fame awaits.