"Ballet!" I exclaimed, in the same manner that Thomas Edison must have shouted out "Eureka!" when he invented the light bulb. In response to my confessions of feeling like I was in a dull, sad rut due to all my miscarriages, my friend M had encouraged me to try something new, something that I had always wanted to do just for me, to take a small step that would give me an upbeat answer to the question "So, what's new with you?"
Ballet was my answer. I love ballet. There is a troupe in my city, and I love to watch them perform. Their strength, their grace, the beauty of the music and the dance...it really moves me. (That may be cheesy, but it's true.)
I had always wanted to take ballet lessons, but never did. When I was a child, back in the days of Flashdance, Solid Gold Dancers, and blindingly shiny leotards, I took jazz for a while, but I didn't take ballet.
Well, now was my chance. Why not now? After all, it's good to get outside of one's comfort zone and learn something new. And ballet is great exercise.
I told my husband my plan, and his enthusiasm and supportiveness were very sweet. He immediately pulled out the phone book and started calling ballet schools to find out if they take adult beginners. We found one that did, and signed me up for Saturday morning classes.
Next we went to a little boutique and purchased a black, short-sleeved, scoop-necked leotard; pink tights; and ballet slippers made of soft pink leather. I excitedly rushed home and carefully sewed the elastic straps on my slippers. Next I pulled my hair back into a bun, arrayed myself in the new ensemble, and paraded around the house striking ballet-esque poses for my husband, who is very indulgent about putting up with my dorkiness.
Saturday morning dawned cold and bright, and I drove to a strip mall that houses a modest studio consisting of a small vestibule/waiting area; an attached changing room where dancers can leave the clothes that they wear in over their leotards; a big room with hardwood floors, mirrors along one wall, and a bar along the other; and a small restroom in the back. I felt nervous as I timidly greeted some other women and teens sporting ballet togs, some of whom were wisp thin and in the process of wrapping point shoe ribbons around their ankles. They were all rather quiet and demure.
I guess I had some basis for feeling nervous. After all, I was a thirty-something woman wearing a leotard in public (and everyone knows that a good leotard is less flattering than a bad bathing suit). Plus, my brother had given me the nickname "Earthquake Legs" when I was a kid, so I wasn't exactly known for my gracefulness.
My ballet instructor is just what you would imagine a ballet instructor to be. She is long-limbed and Dutch, with an accent to match. Although she appears to be in her 60s, her legs look like a much younger person's: muscular and beautiful, perfectly shaped. In her youth, she was a professional ballerina with the Royal Dutch Ballet. She wears her fading blondish hair pulled back, and her coral lipstick is severely smudged on. She has a sense of humor and can be encouraging, but she can also be rather blunt, and she runs a tight ship. I like her, but am also very slightly afraid of her.
We started out at the bar, stretching and positioning our bodies in time with classical music. Later we did some more fluid movements. My body felt stiff and painfully inflexible; my muscles quivered in protest. I did my best to follow along, trying to imitate the more experienced girls. The experience levels in the class varied widely, and I was the only one there who hadn't been learning ballet for at least two years. Somehow, the instructor was able to teach to everyone's differing abilities.
I totally stunk! (figuratively, not literally...okay, well, maybe a little bit literally, too, what with the exercising and sweating and all)
But even though it was hard and humbling, I decided that I liked it.
When I went home, I rented a beginner's ballet instructional video from the library and practiced at home, diligently stretching every day to limber up my muscles. Two months of classes later, I still stunk and was struggling to follow along, but I loved it. It's great exercise and it's fun.
I enjoyed partaking in a new, purely physical activity. I have focused so much over the past few years on what my body CAN'T do (i.e., have a baby), that I often take for granted all the wonderful things that it CAN do. Maybe it can't carry a baby to term, but it CAN (sort of) dance to beautiful music. Plus, while I'm in class, my mind is so busy trying to tell my arms and legs which way to go that I just can't think about anything else, which is a big plus when my mind has been weighed down with heavy thoughts of an empty nursery. It's a total escape.
A few days later, a girl at work asked me what was new with me, and when I told her that I had started taking ballet lessons, she said "How cool!" (It's a much more gratifying response than I likely would get to a statement such as "I am learning how to shoot myself up with a Gonal-F pen.")
Now, here's the rub. All through June and July, I had to miss my ballet class due to having to work or being out of town due to my dad's surgery or for some other reason. (One such reason was that, like an idiot, I was doing cartwheels in the yard with my 5-year-old niece without warming up much first, and I slightly pulled my hamstring. D'oh! Oh well, let it not be said that I am an un-fun aunt.)
Back at the end of May, I told my ballet instructor that I would have to miss one or two classes, but my absence has stretched way beyond that. I let it go on for so long that I became ashamed that I hadn't called my instructor to explain. Without consciously intending to, I dropped out of ballet before I ever really got going. Bummer. I feel like I already have forgotten most of what I learned.
BUT, last night I called my ballet instructor to apologize for missing so many classes, and she was really quite gracious about it. So tomorrow I'll be donning my ballet togs for another class.
And that's what's new with me.
