The Black Swan

Slats of wooden floorboards creak beneath the delicate movement and placement of feet pirouetting across its surface. Feet which house both worn and unworn pink slippers. Tiny strings of thread poke out where stitches have been restitched from the numerous stories they have told through their journey across the stage. On others, stiffness envelopes the feet which shifts to their bodies; these are the novices of the room who are still uncertain if their arm position is appropriate to whatever their lower half is currently engaging in. Mirrors consume all four walls-floor to roof-so not a moment passes unaccounted or observed for.

Sweet serenity.

Today I decided I wanted to be a ballerina. And this idea was further reinforced by my refrigerator magnet that I strategically placed at my favorite haven to serve as a reminder that it is okay to face any and all vulnerabilities.

The thought of dancing again is a bit terrifying. When I was young, like most kids, I was fearless (despite having a father who taught the opposite daily, I mean hourly, of all the possible things I should be afraid of). It’s a wonder I don’t still reside in one of my parent’s residences.

The previous statement should be edited. Today, I decided I wanted to be a ballerina again. I once was a ballerina; the days before adolescence, thighs, and when wearing make-up was confined to the stage. Which in retrospect is a hideous way to introduce young formidable girls to make up.

“Cake it on!"

"They can’t see you without it!"

" You won’t be noticed! You don’t want to be a wallflower, do you?”

Well, I guess not, but you do have me dressed up like a mushroom (true story), not exactly the preparation for someone that’s about to be the chandelier of which parties and events revolve around.

Stite’s Studio was thrilling. I loved going to ballet class. I felt important carrying my lavender dance bag with the pink slippers screen printed on the side, and taking out my own slippers that matched once I got into the studio. It was forbidden to walk on the streets with your ballet slippers. I loved the feeling of my black skirt grazing my standard pink tights as I spun around in circles and anticipating my turn to do grande jete’s diagonally across the floor. And then back. I was always eager to go one more time and never understood the hesitation of some of my classmates and their willingness to let me cut in line as they continued to allow others to “go ahead” while they hoped to get lost. In a room full of mirrors.

My hiatus from the jewelry-box dancer was due to taking on more “competitive” sports. Maybe I should say “contact” as I’m sure I’ve offended, and rightfully so, someone who has starred as Clara in Juliard’s production of “The Nutcracker.” Or some other big deal where you literally ruin the shape, feeling, and overall attractiveness of your feet. Or where you work so hard in becoming a character that you manifest this war between self and evil ultimately dying for the role [Spoiler alert].

So after much thought, hesitation, longing feelings during a cinematic blockbuster that shouldn’t warrant such emotion, more hesitation, and conversations with a friend who had recently taken the leap [pun], I decided to take Mrs. Roosevelt’s advice.

[my favorite new pair of shoes I've bought this week. Besides the strappy sandals I bought yesterday...]

Before I had an opportunity to change my mind, I googled the nearest dance store and bought a new dance wardrobe. I was reassured when the lady told me, “You totally need a leotard with a strappy back,” which I interpreted as my lifting has been paying off and Operation 2011: Tone back, is giving noticeable results. Even though I was wearing a cardigan at the time this comment was made.

Here’s to dancing like no one (besides 15 women and possibly 2 men) is watching.