Zelda Fitzgerald and I are not so different - given space and resource, a ballet floor, a barre, a mirror would be at my disposal and the time to move like a willow and step on the tip of my toe like a dagger and spin would be mine.
I've returned to taking ballet. Last week, balanced on demi-pointe, Shirley came and stood behind me. "Look at you. You are perfect. Beautiful." And whatever the reality may be, in that nano-second of dance and frozen stillness of dance where alignment and grace pause to portray the control of head tilt, arch of arms, unwavering ankle; there I was beautiful and joy full.
Since I've returned to dance, my pants have begun to hang lower on my hips and if I add the weight of my cell phone to my pocket, they nudge down to the hip level where the teens wear their jeans, and suddenly I understand. The caress of the yoke of the pant across the anvil of my hips is seductive; my step is more precise, my years leave me, a swarm of bees honeys between my hips, and under my toes, the earth is influenced. Heady stuff. Now wonder the boys and girls are wearing their pants low.
Is it any wonder that once a woman has ballet in her frame, she cannot let it go?
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