Catching Up With Myself

March 21, 2005 - 12:00am -- swingbug

On Saturday morning I woke up to dreary light. I rolled over and stared at my alarm clock, willing the numbers to come into focus. After a week of early days at the office, I'm not quite sure where I'm supposed to be just yet. 7:00 am. Field work today? Think think think. Slow moving gears turn and click. No. Saturday. Sleep in? Think think think. No. Ballet this morning. I smile.

I spend a few minutes contemplating how it is that putting on tights and bouncing around in a cold room before 10 a.m. on Saturday makes me smile. It does, nonetheless. I get up and don the tights.

Jenny and I were held after class on Tuesday. Our instructor told us she'd like us to move up from our Beginning Ballet 3 class to Intermediate 1. This is huge for us. Very serious. Yes, ma'am. Thursdays. 5:00 p.m. Yes, ma'am. Thank you. Out in the hallway, squeals and a big fat high five. We've been in Beginning Ballet 3 for more than 2 years now. Now with an additional class on Thursday, plus my old classes and rehearsals, I'm in ballet 3-4 times a week. This makes me happy. (It also justifies a muffin from the coffee shop this morning.)

I took ballet when I was little too. I stopped when we moved to Northern California when I was 10. I think I've probably gotten better now than I was then. This is a huge hurdle.

I remember when I started back up three years ago. There was a class for young girls (probably around age 10) just before mine. I used to marvel at how I had once been as good at this as they were and now here I was again, starting over. First position. Second position. Plee. Tondue. I remember the words. Creaky muscles vaguely remember the motion. They don't remember being this sore afterwards though; that's new. It's an odd feeling to find yourself standing at the barre again in strikingly similar pink tights and black leotard. Same bun. Same one or two little hairs that refused to wrap into the bun. Even the room looks very similar. I think the one when I was a child was bigger though. Or was I just smaller then? Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of myself coming out of a turn and swear the me in the mirror was 2 feet shorter and 15 years younger. Surreal.

I found this photo in box at my folks' house not long ago. Looks like I might have been 7 or so. It's been almost 20 years. Glad I finally caught up with her.

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