Turn Around, Bright Eyes

Growing up, my parents nixed all expensive extracurriculars. As a result, I've never learned to ski, golf, or play tennis. I never went to overnight camp. Instead, I spent my summers putting on backyard carnivals, the finale of which was a one-woman acrobatic show that culminated in a forward diving somersault from the A-frame of the jungle gym. When that wrapped up for the season, I started a calligraphy business- my best seller was a neon sign that proudly proclaimed "God Bless This Mess!" in what I called 'Victorian script'. When a friend recently told me he once spent a summer building a to-scale replica of the Chicago skyline, I totally knew where he was coming from. I'd spent an entire childhood learning how to entertain myself.

I love the way I grew up and I wouldn't change any of it to have attended hourly lessons at a country club or make lanyards at Camp Hochiwaka. Yet every once in a while, I'm reminded that my upbringing puts me at a bizarre disadvantage. Like today, when I had to go on a golf outing for work, which I'd completely forgotten about until I showed up at the office this morning.

There I was, taking my first ever swing right off the tee, in front of co-workers I've known for exactly two weeks. Good times.

It was in this moment that I cursed my parents- first for getting my mom's utter lack of athletic ability, second for not ever having been brought to a driving range. Then I cursed myself for forgetting about the outing.

Then I started to pay attention instead of thinking of all the people I wanted to curse, because in my usual daydream state I putted the first hole with my 7 iron. Which was actually not the most embarrassing moment of the day- that came when I hit my head on the golf cart as I got in. Two different times. Ask to see my bruise if you are wondering if this entry is purely hyperbolic.

Before you start wondering if my co-workers now hate me, or just feel bad for me, I should mention I lucked out because one of them was also a first-time golfer and the other was skilled but not at all judgmental. Plus...

Something happened on hole four- I hit the ball on the first try, and it went sailing IN THE AIR instead of skipping like a smooth rock across the water as all my others had. It went pretty far, too- the hole was a par-4 so I didn't hit the green but I did stay right in the center of the fairway. In the end, it was the best shot of the day for our group. A sigh of relief, as always, in these situations- I'd just hoped to be pass-able.

Much like my calligraphy sign business, my day job is to find the right words for the right moments. Like my one woman carnival show, my night job now is to pick the best combination of music, costumes, and choreography. It's impossible to not see the parallels between the five-year-old me and the adult me; the life I'm mapping out now is perhaps just a more lucrative, adult version of the one I started twenty years ago. I'm grateful I learned early who I was, and why it was important for me to stay equal parts word nerd and bedazzled spinning top.

I'm grateful I learned when to laugh at myself, when to take pride in myself, and how to remain unscathed by moments that others would find embarrassing.

Most of all, I'm grateful my parents never splurged on a video camera so there is no evidence of me bossing around my light man (neighbor) as I walked across the stage (backyard) in a gold leotard and fringed skirt to begin my opening number, a Total Eclipse of the Heart/Toni Braxton mash-up.

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Well I started out down a dirty road...

Our ballet bar exam was this morning. Despite a slight lack of sleep and the evidence of Mifflin weekend still present around my hips, I think I did pretty well. Viv even said that he couldn't have been happier with our progress this semester.

Even if he had cussed us out for the hundredth time, I don't think that I would have left the class upset. I used to hate ballet when I was younger, and would half ass all the bar exercises in order to get to the fancy stuff: leaps, turns, tricky combinations that I should not have been attempting. Yet in the past semester, under Vivian's watchful eye, I have a new appreciation for the basics. This may be because attempting those leaps and turns would be a death wish now. Maybe it's because my intrinsic need for approval led to me working my ass off so that Viv would like me. Either way, I have sore muscles that I forgot existed, and I can execute some moves better than when I was a nimble ten year old with a 16 inch waist.

So right as I am beginning to appreciate ballet for the first time, the class is ending. I was starting to feel a little tinge of sadness when I saw that Viv teaches a summer class for both elementary and intermediate students. Conveniently located in the same building as my internship, on the same floor. It's like a sign from the ballet gods that I am not done with this yet.

Throughout the class, Viv has picked out a few people to try more difficult moves than the extremely basic exercises we try in class. Picture all the horrible jazzercise videos, and how one older woman is always doing the "low impact workout", while a Chyna look-alike is doing the whole thing while lifting 15 pound barbells. Having no idea where I stood, I decided to play it safe and do the regular exercises. Halfway through the class, Vivian hissed (no seriously he hissed) that I should be trying the more difficult moves. I obediently began lifting my legs higher, feeling the BURN that I used to avoid. Viv nodded each time, even when my legs were shaking like I was going through heroine withdrawls.

Taking this as a sign that I should sign up for the intermediate class this summer, I went to ask his permission to enter the second level. He looked at me incredulously, asking, "how many years of ballet have you had?"

I knew this was not going to end the way I had planned, so I just told the truth. Eight years of ballet, ending when I was twelve. He chuckled, patted me on the back, and told me he'd see me in the elementary class. Chyna I am not... and that's probably okay.

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All hopped up and no place to go

This has to be brief, for reasons that will soon become evident.

I don't think you have fully lived until you have attempted an all-nighter with some of the amazing people that I live with. Midnight Starbucks trips, 3 a.m. sundae binges, full bags of peanut M&M's disappearing without recollection all become a common occurrence. As do sayings that get forever put into our repertoire, like when Tal told me to "FUCK OFF!" when she meant "NO WAY!".
I currently have a reading guide, two ballet papers (really, Vivian?) a film paper, and a seven minute debate due by Wednesday at one p.m. As of five minutes ago, I have the film paper done. Don't worry, I don't blame anyone but myself. I have even convinced myself that I like to work under pressure.
Otherwise, I don't know how I would explain the fact that instead of doing work this weekend and today, I:

- went out Thursday, recuperated all day Friday
- didn't do anything on Saturday except go to work for a night shift
- made a lasagna for the better part of last night after sitting around all day
- took a three hour nap and skipped two classes today
- am currently writing this blog post to avoid all of the above activities

This day would royally suck, were it not for the fact that Vivian complemented me today. In addition to saying "good leg" last week (about the leg I was moving), he smiled at me today and informed me that I had a good chasse. For those not familiar, that is pretty much the equivalent of saying, you know how to properly shift your weight from one leg to the other while keeping them bent. Screw all these papers, I'm two steps from Julliard.

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A case of the mondays

"Rachel, your releve. It is not tight enough. RAY-CHUL. Do not move so slow as molasses. I speak, and your feet move accordingly to my words."

At nine fifteen on a Monday morning, getting a quick response from me is going to be difficult. It is even more difficult to elicit a response at said time when I am dressed in an ill-fitting leotard and pink tights, and you are calling me by the wrong name in broken English.

But my slightly bi-polar Ballet 101 teacher is not the type of person you correct. Though he stands tall at five foot four, weighs 85 pounds, and generally wears see-through leggings that leave nothing to the imagination, Vivian is the type of person that makes you feel apologetic when he calls you the wrong name. Which is why I sprung into action, tightening my releve as I made a mental note to respond to Rachel for the last month of class. I'll be damned if I am going to wake up at 8 a.m. two days a week without eventually getting this man to like me. Vivian, it is ON.

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