Dancer Daze

I used to be a dancer, a ballet dancer. Even though many seem to balk at the rigidity of ballet, I loved it. Precision art. As a ballerina, I delighted in the predictable and very basic warm-up routine of pointing and flexing toes, cycling through first through fifth positions, arms and legs, endless pliés, transitioning into brushing and jumping and leaping and twirling, each exercise building on the one before. I still remember Miss Rusty’s summer dance camp. And her long platinum ponytail, tightly encircled by a ring of her own hair, strong and very defined shoulders. And the most detailed coral lip liner which was clearly supposed to disguise her very thin lips as plump. Then there was Miss Ari, whose physique didn’t resemble a classic ballerina at all, but she absolutely owned her dancer’s legs. I wondered about my own legs. They were lean and long and sometimes mocked as “chicken legs.” But they earned me blue ribbons across finish lines of 50 and 100-yard dashes. So I kept dancing.

I remember the chalkboard in the dance studio, the first place I learned Latin and the etymology of those technical moves we practiced weekly. One of my favorites was chassé — to chase. After the barre warm-up, we’d move to the center of the room to practice combinations and eventually, we’d rehearse for the annual dance recital. The number and style of classes we took informed the number of dances we would perform. And then there were the costumes. While our routine practice attire consisted of pink tights and black leotards, monochromatic and measured, the recital attire was like the Fourth of July, colorful and explosive.

I wish I had kept dancing. I miss the firecracker days of performing on stage, of expressing my creative force through my strong and flexible body. As I now enjoy watching my four year-old daughter discover how to move her body in her class of tiny dancers, I’m struck by how fast it all twirled by. I hope she always chases her dreams. And maybe I will dance again, too.