Roller-coaster of a week, you guys.
Had my usual two adult open level ballet classes, with Smirnoff.
But class #1 I was all like:
Moan! Poor me! Tiny-est violin! Hand on forehead! Alas!
Then Class #2 I was all like:
Yeah! (pumps fist) That’s whut I’m talkin’ bout!
Trying to figure out why I was so Morrissey about the first class. I mean, whenever people around me are all mope-ity mope-mope I just assume they haven’t had anything to eat, but, you know, clearly my feelings are legit and not due to stupid stuff like low blood sugar.
Why so serious?
One of the nice things about being an adult beginner is that there is no younger, more fearless, more hip-less version of you to compare yourself to. You’re never being mocked by your past abilities. Just by purchasing slippers an adult beginner does more than her past self.
An adult beginner starts at zero, every little thing is a win.
An adult ballet beginner maybe has certain unspoken, unshattered expectations? Like, maybe the secret but really firmly held belief that she is Totally a Natural and that it is a freakin’ crime that the world will never know the balletical genius that, with proper training, could have been?
And then, as an adult beginner advances through the first year and a quarter of ballet classes she watches as the harsh magnified sunbeam of reality fries each tiny little ant of expectation?
I’m naturally flexible! Bzzt! No!
I’m naturally turned out! Zzerp! No!
I’m a natural jumper! Bzzp! Uh-uh.
I’m a natural turner? Zerrmp! Nope.
Naturally graceful? Frzzzt! No.
And then it’s clear that you are a little bit of all of these things but exceptional at none of them?
And then you drive home from class all emo singing along with the radio about how only rocks and stones accept your love so you’re throwing your arms around Paris, or however that song goes?
And then two days later you’re driving home from class totally pumped because that day there was a different set of exercises and some of them you totally owned, like you totally made those ronde des jambes a la air your bitch, and then you’re like Woah, dudes. Ballet is a crazy ride.
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