Roundup at Swan Lake

There is a really, really good reason 99% of all Beginning Ballet classes are offered to humans under the age of ten.  Two good reasons, actually, and they're both called 'bunion.'

Today's flickering dream, Principal Ballerina After Retirement, turned out to be just that.  In fact, I'm not sure I could even keep it up as a bizarrely interesting way to exercise.

I took ballet lessons in elementary school.  (I didn't have many flickering dreams back then, but my biggest one - memorizing my locker combination if I got into Junior High - eventually came true.)  I have remembered for decades the graceful maneuvers on a brightly lit stage during my only childhood ballet performance, but wrestling into my purple tights today whisked me back to the truth.

That truth was as ugly as those tights.

There was not a brightly lit stage in the whole state of Wyoming, so the "performance" happened in the living room of an Elks Club member.  The Elk Wife was hosting a meeting of the Does - women married to men who spent their waking hours drinking at the Elks Club.

As a child with a serious inability to battle adults, I could not bring myself to mention that while the female deer is called a 'doe,' the female elk is a 'cow.'  They would have surrounded and stomped me to death at the news, but I figured - based on the combined weight of the herd - the bulls had probably been obliged during less sober moments to let their wives in on that little secret.

My ballet teacher was born and raised in our very small town, but somehow ended up with an oddly French last name.  I suspect she added a few vowels to whatever it used to be, rendering it virtually unpronounceable in a subtly intercontinental way.

Her imagination continued to reside in our very small town.

For the Spring Recital (our only performance that year - reviews were mixed), she had composed a 'piece' that required every girl to dress up like a different bird.  We had everything but a swan.  We also lacked a storyline.  And a plot.

It was an avant-garde performance art piece - something the dancers had never heard of - so we were told to just run through the ballet maneuvers we'd mastered.

That left us with nothing to perform, so we were told to run through the ballet maneuvers we'd made up.  Joyce liked spinning around with her eyes closed, Carolyn liked clomping side-to-side in her sister's toe shoes, and I loved to kick.  My technique incorporated just a hint of slap-stick when accidentally kicking both legs simultaneously.

I donned my least holey midnight ink leotard and played the part of the bluebird, replete with crepe paper wings.  For some crazy reason, I also wore a crown.  Maybe I was Queen of the Least Holey Birds; thankfully, that part flew from my memory early on.

Logistical uh-oh began the instant the show started.  My wings, fashioned from way too much crepe paper, flapped vulture-like as I flew into the small circle of large women and kicked menacingly at their faces.

Those Elk Lady screams were not my fault.

The problem was that we had rehearsed (obviously sans costume) in the slightly larger living room of the ballet teacher's duplex.  Larger because it contained zero furniture.  The woman was trés intercontinental.

So my colorfully feathered friends and I had to slow the choreography down to avoid running out of favorite things to do and renaming our production "Stampede!"

There were awkward pauses while the scary Transylvanian music caught up to me - frozen in mid-kick, panting through bright blue lips.  (During flapping, the crepe paper tended to land on chapped spots I'd licked compulsively all winter.)

Eventually, Darlene (our super-skinny, red-breasted robin) burst into tears and everyone who assumed this signified the end of the 'performance' clapped with gusto.  Including, it seemed, the scary Transylvanian orchestra still spinning away on the record player.

Then all of the adults, starting with my ballet teacher, lit cigarettes and we were off.

Beginning Adult Ballet required participation by muscle groups I'd excused from duty after my last recess.  (Full disclosure:  Today's super nice teacher assured me I had not violated official rules by claiming amateur status, as I had passed the 45-year mark since participation.)  (I still can't challenge adult authority, even if the other adult is 30 years my junior.)

I was the only Beginning Adult registered for today's class, which was more awkward than a baby shower at the Elks Club on a Sunday morning.  Luckily, the instructor's two ballerina friends showed up, along with a young man who'd only had one class.  YAY - another newbie!

He turned out to be a gymnast.

Besides both bunions, other obstacles arose for me at le barre.

Pointing my toes out at unnatural angles was easier as a child.  So was bending at the knees while rotating both hips skyward with one ankle perched somewhere near my head.

At least the music wasn't scary, I got to hear the teacher say a bunch of real French words, and there was plenty of room to kick.

I had nothing to do while lying on my back during 'floor work,' so I tapped my toes to the beat of the hip hop class next door.  My fellow ballerinas did sit-ups - something I'd tried once in eighth grade for the President's Physical Fitness Test, but it didn't work out like I'd hoped.  I may or may not have thrown up.  I'm one of those rare adults that offer up prayers of gratitude for my memory bank's extreme fuzziness.

The adult ballet class grand finale (bonus Italian word) included a little hippity-hopping routine that ended in leg splits.

On purpose.

My thighs watched the first contestant, then crumpled like fainting goats.  I explained that it had been a while since I'd done splits and wanted to sit that one out, which brought smiles all around.  They knew I'd never even contemplated it.

But that's the great thing about a fuzzy memory bank!

Splits may or may not have been my most favorite thing to do.

(Problems with Restless Arm Syndrome?  You're in the right place!  Meet me here next Friday and we'll LEARN TO CROCHET.)