To the Pointe

Tonight I did something I’ve been thinking about doing for years: I took a ballet class. (Cue image of Babar in pink tutu – it’s okay, that’s what’s been in my head, too.)

I took a ballet-inspired class at Canyon Ranch several years ago when I got sent there on assignment, but that doesn’t really count – it was in the can-do atmosphere of a spa. Tonight was an honest-to-goodness ballet class, barre and all (or should I say, barre none?)

I felt terribly conspicuous from the moment I walked in. I knew I would.

“Have you ever done ballet before?” asked Katarina The German Pixie.

“Um, well, there’s a video of me dancing the Waltz of Flowers somewhere, but it’s so old it must be the kind you can’t play anymore.” Cue stares from the four sylphs in the class.

I spent the next hour not bothering to try to remember which position is which – frankly, I’m not sure I ever knew -- and just trying to copy the person in front of me. I felt like the pixie was laughing at me the whole time, until I watched her demonstrate some steps and realized she's just one of those terribly smiley people who always looks like she's laughing. Still, I enjoyed the class.

I don’t know why I’ve had ballet on the brain for so many years. I was forced to take ballet, tap, and jazz at ages five and six – I liked tap the best, because it made noise – and I know I was thrilled when we moved to Florida, and my mother never got around to finding a new ballet school. (I didn’t realize it then – none of us did – but that must have been the beginning of her illness.)

All I can remember about my childhood ballet class – besides the wrist corsages my parents bought us for the recital – is that all I really wanted were pink ballet shoes, not the practical black ones my mother insisted on. My shoe habit is ruinous enough and I have a history of buying equipment for hobbies I only flirt with, so when I finished the class tonight I promised myself if I attend nine more, the pink ones are mine.