Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Grand Plié

When I first sat down to write this post, I had just come home from my first ballet class in over thirty years. It was going to be a funny piece about how I had dressed like Punky Brewster in a class among black-leotarded women. How they wore their hair in neat little buns: I had mine in pigtails. They are cutely athletic: Let’s just say I am not and leave it at that. Once we actually started dancing it didn’t get any better. After losing my balance spinning across the room I remembered why I’d quit ballet as a child. Imagine Hagrid in a tutu in a china shop. In draft format this post was funny.

Now here I am, four weeks into the class. I’ve been working hard, lots of sweating. The teacher is the company principal - Russian accent and all. I was starting to think this wasn’t as funny as it is really really good for me.

And then I went to class tonight. Tonight a huge group of new students joined the class. Most of them are clearly not beginner dancers. All of them are pretty and delicate. They smiled and had fun, even with legs up on the barre. They were wearing makeup. I totally fell apart. I couldn’t remember the combinations. I mixed up my pliés and relevés. I’ll spare all the gory details but the story ends with me quitting the class in tears and a silent vow not to return.

A pint of Ben & Jerry’s later and I’m ready to dig into the meat of what the heck happened tonight. Why did I let myself be shaken so badly? This is not the first time I’ve stood out for being the big klutzy girl. I’m fairly sure I wasn’t upset by the realization that I make for a shitty ballerina. I was only hoping to get stronger toes out of the class, after all. Tonight I found myself sitting in my car bawling my eyes out and wishing I were a better artist, photographer, soccer player, runner, pianist, student, mother, and even dancer. And really, is it so bad to want to be good at something? I don’t think so.

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