Gentle Readers, brace yourselves.
I have gone full leotard.
What possessed me? Well, it’s all this book reading I’ve been doing. Darn books. All full of comments about how much easier it is for a teacher to correct your form when they can actually see your form, and blah blah blah.
Fine! I’m convinced.
So there I was in the dance store, (a locally owned, independent dance store, of course) staring down a rack of black leotards.
They are all different.
What the hell?
Every last one has some kind of ruching or strapping or goofy sparkles, there’s shiny and matte, camisole, short sleeve, long sleeve…holy too many choices, Batman!
Was glad to at least have my options narrowed by size. When have I ever been so relieved to be a size large? Never, that’s when!
Tried on twenty-seven or so leotards. Had just settled on a matte cap-sleeve raglan style, high enough in back to be worn with a bra if necessary, and not totally stupid looking, when the sales-girl came around to let me know the store was closing in five.
No problem, almost done, grab some little black shorts on the way to the register, tell the cashier I’d like some tights as well.
She says what kind. I say pink.
She explains that she meant full-foot or convertible foot. I say “whuh?” She stares at me for an answer. I start to panic. I explain that I’m a beginner, that I’ve never worn dance tights and can’t remember what kind of tights the other girls in class wear. She asks where I dance. I explain that I’m visiting and plan on trying a drop-in class at the local ballet school (meanwhile feeling like a huge imposter for not correcting her use of the word dance*) She begins to extol the virtues and differences of full foot and of convertible, as if to help me make my decision, while another sales girl gets out the vacuum and flips the open sign and I wish desperately for someone to just tell me what the hell I should buy when suddenly I hear,
“These are on sale. They are a good brand, and have a nice waistband. Try these.”
I whirl around to see my rescuer, a third sales-girl, holding out a package of pink tights, size large. Hali-fucking-lujah. I just about hug her.
Later at home I try on the whole ensemblé. Turns out the tights have a convertible foot.
*Mr. Adult Beginner asked me just now what was wrong with the sales-girl’s use of the word dance. I explained that the correct sentence would read not, “where do you dance?” but, “where do you blob around like a big googley blob monster?”