Middle-aged Ballet
“Here for a fitting?”
“If you have time. I don’t have an appointment.”
“We have time. Come on back.”
The uneven plank floors creak as I make my way past the racks of tiny leotards, sparkly hair bows, leg warmers, and tights. The converted barn sports its original beams and flooring, its pièce de resistance a massive circular window that sits above the main entrance. Light filters through the glass creating an ethereal ambience on this cloudy September day.
I slip off my flip flops, exposing my unbecoming feet, and pull on the nylon foot coverings the woman hands me. She expertly measures each foot then moves to a wall that is covered from floor to ceiling in small boxes. It’s reminiscent of Olivander’s wand shop in Harry Potter. The woman taps her finger to her lips and then pulls numerous boxes from the shelves, piling them in her arms and bringing them to me. She opens them with a flourish, and I try on the slippers one by one, until I know which pair I will choose.
“Which studio are you with?” she asks, and I nearly snort with laughter.
“The Community Center,” I respond. “This will be my first class in twenty-five years.”
Some of the formality seeps out of her shoulders.
“Oh,” she says, “that’s nice.”
There may have been a time when I could have passed as a dancer; back when I took classes every day and simply walking had me thinking about my posture and my presence, the grace that can be imbued into even the smallest of movements, when my body was lean and long; but that was decades ago, and even then I felt like an imposter. In pursuit of my musical theater career, I was a singer first, an actor second, and a dancer as a far but necessary third. My feet, however, tell the story of those years, and perhaps that is what fooled her. My feet are dancer’s feet.
Two weeks ago, I stumbled across a listing for an adult ballet class. Remarkably, it was being offered at the perfect time of day for me. I signed up before I could talk myself out of it, then went looking for my long-packed-away dance stuff.
Somewhere in my attic is a bin chock full of ballet shoes, tap shoes, jazz shoes, and several pairs of character shoes. It also houses leotards and tights in a variety of shades and styles. After much searching and swearing, however, I am unable to locate this bin, and as the first day of my class nears, I panic that I won’t have the required uniform as listed in the class description: a black leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet shoes. Also, my hair must be pulled into “a neat bun”. Putting aside my inner tirade about a strict dress code for an adult class, I place a frenzied order and Amazon kindly provides me with the tights and leotard (a humbling experience in itself); but after multiple tries, I have been unsuccessful in acquiring proper fitting ballet slippers from the retail giant.
That is how I came to be at Twinkle Toes dance shop, forty minutes from home, on the day before my first class. Relieved to finally have properly fitting (pink) ballet shoes, I make my way to the register, fighting the urge to buy a sparkly dance sweater, leg warmers, and a duffle bag emblazoned with Dancing is Life! Keep it together, Sonja. Those days are over. Instead, the tiny shoe box is sleeved in a dainty paper bag with handles, and I patiently wait to pay while a four-year-old’s parents spend $254 to outfit their precious girl with all she will need to pirouette across the stage at her fall recital.
I admit, I am a little giddy about my purchase. Did you know they now make ballet slippers out of canvas instead of leather? They’re so much more comfortable! I make my way to my car, perhaps standing a bit taller, maybe with my feet turned out just a bit. No, I did not. Don’t be ridiculous.
“Will there be a recital?” my husband asks cheekily after dinner, as I gush about my new shoes.
“No. We’re not 5-year-olds. No one wants to see a bunch of old ladies in leotards.”
“I do,” he replies.
I roll my eyes and load the dishwasher.
When I climb into bed later, I find that I am a bit nervous about my class in the morning. Will I be the oldest one there? Should I be in an intermediate/advanced class after all these years? What if the class is full of svelte twenty-year-olds who’ve been dancing without decades off? What if I pull something? Eek! Maybe I should have found a beginner class; or maybe I should just stick to my usual exercise regimen and forget about dancing altogether.
“Will there be a recital?” my roommate from college texts as I get ready the next morning.
“Absolutely not,” I reply.
“If you’re lying, and I find out there was a recital, there will be hell to pay,” she says, and she means it. “Will you wear a tutu?”
“No,” I text back with a sigh. Never in all my years of performing did I get to wear a tutu. It is one of my life’s regrets. “I’m still baffled over this dress code,” I lament. “Seems a bit much for someone my age.” I check the mirror to make sure my bun is neat. In addition to my black leotard and pink tights, I have added a sheer, black dance skirt. I feel like a rebel, but seriously, I’m middle-aged. The skirt is like a security blanket. I snap a quick picture and send it to my roommate. “I’m ready!” I text.
As I drive to the community center, my anxiety inches upward. I convince myself that I won’t even remember the basic foot positions and that I’m going to make an utter fool of myself. Then I realize that my ADHD brain has convinced me that the class starts ten minutes later than it actually does, and I’m going to be late. I put the pedal to the metal and bomb into the parking lot, trot into the building and up a flight of stairs, arriving in the studio out of breath.
Everyone is already in place at bars placed across the studio floor. All eyes are trained on me as I quickly slip on my shoes and dump my bag by the wall. The only open bar spot is clear across the room, so I shimmy along the back wall as the instructor begins the music. I focus, trying to offset my tardy entrance by being highly engaged and unobtrusive. We start in first position with demi pliès, our arms moving through a series of motions. When we grand pliè my knee cracks so loudly it echoes through the space, drawing everyone’s attention again. Oops. I smile sheepishly.
As the class continues, I settle in, and my body somehow remembers what to do. I coupè, dègagè, and port de bras. I even pas de bourrée without tripping. My arms don’t always go where they are supposed to, my legs don’t lift nearly as high as they once did, and I grip the bar so tightly that at one point it comes clear off the floor, but it all feels familiar and…..wonderful. We take a break and I regard my classmates. I am not the oldest- not by a longshot, nor am I the worst. I am, however, the only one in a black leotard with pink tights and pink ballet slippers with her hair neatly pulled into a bun.
We finish the class with passes across the floor and some jumping. My leg muscles are on fire, and I am red with exertion. There is no question I will have difficulty walking tomorrow.
“What happened to the dress code?” I ask as I gather my things.
“What dress code?” a woman named Candace responds.
“The one listed in the course description. It said we needed black leotard, pink tights, and pink shoes with our hair in a neat bun.”
Candace is wearing yoga pants and a tank top, her shoulder length hair hanging loosely around her face.
“Oh!” she laughs. “I think that was just copied and pasted from the kids’ class.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Seriously?
Be warned, ballet class: I’ll be back next week; bun, black leotard, pink tights, pink shoes, and all.
