Biscuits and Tutus

“Columbus?” The name of the city I lived in twisted around in my mouth feeling half foreign. I hadn’t read that right. A dancer doesn’t come to Columbus.

And then I checked the dates. Not only had I read it right, the date fell smack dab on the same date as a client event. Because that was the only right answer to the question I had asked.

Exasperated, I messaged this person I never had talked to before in my life, “Of course you’re coming when I can’t see you.”

I don’t know how long I’ve been following Biscuit Ballerina. I do know she showed up in my Instagram Explore tab after I had added the umpteenth ballerina to my feed. The video that appeared there was of an awkward ballerina doing absolutely everything wrong. But she was owning it like she was the best damn thing out there.

I remember thinking that she was gonna hurt herself. And then I dug deeper. Shelby Williams, the genius behind the account, was a professional dancer with Ballet Flanders. This account was the answer to the demands of being absolutely perfect all of the time in ballet. It’s impossible. Her absurd videos celebrated the humanity of ballet. Falling Friday even showed the spectacular falls professionals lay down. No one is perfect, not even the absolute best.

I was hooked.

So as I licked my wounds over not being able to take class with her, something miraculous happened: the client event was canceled.

This then led to a number of ridiculous events that all started with when I decided I needed a tutu.

Does a 37 year old need a tutu for anything? After getting one, the answer is definitively yes. I now put it on randomly and simply jump up and down. It makes me happy. I need to be happy. Therefore I need a tutu. Those college logic courses have finally come in handy.

As I jumped up and down, an idea occurred to me: Wouldn’t it be funny if I announced that I was taking this class a la Lebron James? The idea made me laugh, so I cued up some Swan Lake music and went to town.

Hey, have I mentioned that it’s been over 20 years since I’ve consistently taken ballet? No worries. Odette dies to this music. Swans probably flail while they die. I’ll just flail.

With some Betsy language added to the caption, the end result made me laugh hysterically and apparently did the same for others.

And don’t tell me it’s not cool to laugh at yourself. I’m funny. And I work from home. I have to give myself some much needed validation somehow.

Then all I had to do was wait. Waiting is dangerous for my anxieties. Questions started creeping in. I hadn’t taken a ballet class consistently in over 20 years. I had recently gained more weight. I didn’t feel very comfortable anywhere. I was having unexplained severe cases of nausea that had made it impossible to workout.

And. I. Had. Signed. Up. For. A. Ballet. Masterclass. With. An. Amazing. Dancer. What the hell was I doing?

All I could do at this point was go step-by-step and hope for the best.

I started obsessively checking the studio’s website to confirm all details and to look at when their classes were. I don’t know why this needed to be step one, but having details drilled into my brain helped.

Next step, get a new pair of ballet shoes. The last time I had tried this, the girl didn’t hide her disgust over having to help me. And now I was older and fatter. But it ended up being a whole different experience. An older woman helped me and advised me to go to a cheaper, canvas pair that I ended up loving more than the leather. She encouraged me and was obviously super excited that I was trying to get back into something I truly used to love.

And then the outfit had to happen. I obsessed. I bought a leotard. I felt too exposed. I tried on some of my yoga clothes. Too many rolls. Just nothing fit properly.

I found myself in Athleta. I brushed off the help that was initially offered to me, because I didn’t want anyone else to have to deal with me in my indecisive state. And then I slowly realized that the amount of options open to me was surprisingly small. As I dug through capris, I kept coming up empty handed, until I finally had one pair of purple capris. This wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but this is what I was getting. I then did the same dance with tops and sports bras. I ended up with an outfit that I was happy with, but was not anywhere close to what I wanted. Stores really don’t make it easy on us girls with rolls.

The day arrived. I started receiving messages of support and requests for another video (I obliged). But I had woken up feeling terrible. The nausea was back in full force, and I was gonna throw up on a ballerina.

I spent the day with water and G2, willing the nausea to go away.

Then I walked in.

I was greeted cheerfully by Mathilde. I tried to introduce myself, but she stopped me. “I know you from Instagram.” I didn’t like it. Didn’t like it all. Those videos are just a single facet of a very complicated soul. Okay, fine. I’m not all that complicated. But I don’t exactly like the attention in person. BUT PLEASE STILL TELL ME I AM AMAZING ONLINE. DO NOT STOP THIS. I EAT THAT CRAP UP.

I faked a single laugh and then almost lunged at the dog behind her. “He’s an Italian dog.”

“Fancy…” And he’d go perfectly with my little Italian Catholic cat, Cesare. I mean, maybe Cesare is only Italian in my head, but my head is a nice place to be.

Another girl was already there and she gave off a vibe like, “Nope.” So I sat in a chair off to the side. Girls started filing in, and it became painfully clear that I had accidentally secluded myself. One after another on the floor. But I had chosen my fate. The floor was lava to me now.

One girl announced, “It’s been nine years since I’ve been in a class, but here I am!”

Yes! I had totally taken a class more recently than this girl. “Hey, it’s been years for me too! Same boat!” All the exclamation points!

And then she started detailing her professional experience. Nope, not same boat. Not at all.

Before long, we went into class, and I found my place at the barre. And no matter how much I wished it was a bar serving me bourbon, it remained a barre sans bourbon. Be better, barre.

I thought it was time to make friends, especially after my disastrous floor is lava moment, and I was instantly rebuffed. Always the weirdo, never the friend. Fine. The goal is not to make a friend. The goal is to get through a class… where everyone else was probably loads better.

So I messed up my tendues. I fell out of my releves. And there was flailing. Definite flailing. A few gentle nudges here and there from Shelby, and a whole lot of me reminding myself not to beat myself up.

The barres moved to the side and it was time for stretching.

“So you take ballet here?”

Did I dismiss the chance to make friends too soon? I spun around to a smiling face.

“Oh it’s been years since my last class. I’m just coming back.”

“Really?? You’re doing really good.”

I was shocked. I was? But the flailing? What about the flailing? “How long have you taken?”

“This is my first class.” And with that, I had a class friend as we shared how uncomfortable we both were. I could do this.

We were in center and ready for the real dancing.

First combo was quickly given to us. My class friend exclaimed, “Oh this is easier than I thought,” and I threw a, “We got this,” back at him.

More flailing.

“When you dance, it’s easy to glaze over. But look at something. Maybe it’s the person next to you. Just notice what’s around you.”

And this is the moment I relaxed. I noticed things.

Oh hey, my arms look pretty here. Hey, my feet are pointing really nicely. There is a lot going on between these two places, but I just went with it and noticed what I did like.

I was enjoying myself again like I did when I was a kid. Just doing it because I loved how it feels.

One of the other women raised her hand and with obvious anxiety said, “I can’t get the arms.”

Shelby smiled warmly as she went over them again. “But in the end, if you make a mistake, you’re just taking artistic license. THAT’S OKAY.” Yeah, all of my mistakes had totally been me taking artistic license.

I found my stride in across-the-floors when I could mostly get my feet to do what they were supposed to do. I actually felt like I was dancing as I did steps that had never left my feet since I do them every day in my kitchen like a damn adult.

“We’re over. But do you wanna jump?” Um, hell yeah I wanna jump. So jump jump jump jump. Not exactly right but I was an artist now.

Class ended, and I filed out with everyone else. I hadn’t gotten a picture, and for whatever reason, it went through my head that I wouldn’t get one and I’d be an idiot if I asked for one.

I grabbed my phone anyways.

Someone else stepped in before I did, which was fine. I forced her to take a picture of me with Shelby for having done that.

I walked the block to my car as I was flooded with more messages of support, and I just started crying. I had done it, and I didn’t want it to end. But the teacher I had found was leaving. Too many emotions were popping up.

So once again, I found myself on the studio website. An Intro to Ballet class was happening two days later. It stated that it was for people with no previous ballet experience, but I decided to take it anyways. Because I needed to know now if this was the place for me.

After an Instagram story, Shelby messaged me that she was so happy I was in her class. I told her of my plans and how I was really hopeful her class was the beginning of something. She excitedly told me I was in good hands. I wanted to believe her, but doubts were there that ballet was going to leave me again, worse than before.

I showed up to the studio again, and the vibe was… different. I instantly made a friend with someone who was there for the first time. We tried to coax the sleeping Italian dog to be our friend (I swear to God he’s going to love me), and we both seemed to calm down our nervous energy.

Shelby walked in and almost cheered over the fact that I came back. This was going to be okay.

I met Russell in class. He got the name of the newbie and then turned to me. Before he could say, “I know you from Instagram,” I blurted out, “BETSY.” He nodded. No, I don’t know for sure he was going to say that, but I could smell it coming. It’s best we have some mystery around that.

What followed was one of my favorite ballet classes I have ever taken. It was easy. I could spend the time making those little changes to my technique that had fallen over the years. I could marvel at those pieces of my technique that hadn’t left me. And I could laugh. Laughing was encouraged. Silliness was too. It was the class I needed to feel like I had a dance home again.

So if you need me, you can find me at Flux + Flow. Maybe not with a tutu. Definitely with a smile.