My mom was a dancer until her late teens. There are several pictures of her en pointe, tulle tutu sticking stiffly out around her. I too was enrolled in ballet; mom took me to buy the shoes and she patiently worked with gauzy chiffon to sew me my first dance skirt. I remember wearing these to grandpa’s house because I was insistent in showing him my steps. He was so proud, but maybe some of that pride was remembering another little dancer – my mom – when she was young.
I ended my ballet early on though; I told my mom the change room
was stuffy and stunk and I didn’t want to go back. So we focused on ice skating
and swimming. But every once in a while I think about trying an adult ballet
class to improve elements common in dancers of the genre: Poise and Grace.
Even the word Ballet contains a certain degree of beauty in
the height and rhythm of the letters: up for b, down for a, then two stilts in
the middle like dancer’s legs for the l’s, down again for e and finally up for
the t. Up, down, up-up, down, up. Sort of like skipping along.
Now say it with me….”Ballet…I’m going to the ballet.” You drew
out the second syllable and gave it a slight French air at the end, didn’t you? Because if I were still a little girl, I’d want to feel like a ballerina as often as possible.
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