Port de Bras

My mom is currently tacking the straps of my ballet slippers in place and mending my ballet skirt. I went to a big dance clothing store on Monday and wanted to buy all of the zebra striped and neon green stretch shorts I could see, and be "that" ballerina, but I limited myself to a leotard and shoes.

I love this new challenge. I feel graceful one moment, totally clunky and stiff the next. There are moments my flexibility feeds me and others during which I see my classmates' legs stretching just a little more perfectly than mine. My classmates share my sense of humor about the situation as well as my genuine interest in learning our new French hobby, so it is fun. Our teacher has one of those smiles that is perfectly beautiful and encouraging, so that when she says "Good!" to me or the class and catches my eye, I feel capable. Like the smile of a kindergarten teacher. Which is appropriate, because usually it is kindergarteners who take ballet, not twenty-somethings.

At the end of each class I feel energized and exhilirated. This light thrill runs through me, briefly but impossible to ignore. I feel proud of my effort, proud for just enrolling in the class. And I feel proud for being there. I used to get frustrated with missed opportunities; I always knew as my family was moving around while I was growing up that I was making such a diverse network of friends, experiencing multiple cities and cultures. But that didn't stop me from feeling a pang of annoyance, jealousy, and above all sadness when I watched my fellow high school seniors snap pictures at graduation with their best friend since third grade, or when I had to get myself to the Friday night football game because the fact was I was just too new for anyone to even know to invite me to go with them. I knew all along it was making me a strong, unique character, but I also knew for sure this came with its costs, that it was a for better or worse situation.

As I'm navigating (if the term "navigating" indicates the possession of a map, then scratch that) through my twenties, I am learning (slowly, slowly, slowly) that if I feed my jealousy, that is really my own choice and responsibility. I know that from my past I learned to make the best of things, I just get tired of it sometimes. But as I get older I am trying to remind myself during those tired moments that I am an adult, and so I need to make the better choice. For me, taking ballet at my age is saying "Screw you!" to all the conventions of our society that make only certain things possible to certain people with certain privileges and lucky timing. Sure, it's a little awkward to take ballet now, but I'm old enough that I'll remember it for the rest of my life. And I can take home my lessons and analyze them here in my blog; couldn't do that when I was in kindergarten. So I say "So, there" to pieces of my past, in the best ways I know how; enrolling in ballet when I am angry and smiling over the times that made me smile before. It is a bittersweet mix, that is inevitable. So I am trying to make my forward motion, as much as I can, a dance.