First Ballet Class
So I had my first ballet class. It’s Beginning Ballet (for adults). I danced for 11 years when I was younger, so I thought I’d be fine. Rusty, but fine. And of course, I’m so excited about the prospect of making friends.
(BTW, here’s our daily conversation:
Matthew: Want to come with me to Kroger to pick up some groceries?
Me: Do you think we can make friends there!?
I’m a bit desperate, I know. I’m like a 36-year-old divorcee who talks about her biological clock and watches way too much Sex in the City. Except with girlfriends, not men. But that’s a different story.)
So, yes, ballet class. When I actually got to ballet class (I got lost and had to turn around four times. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I only know the name of two roads in all of Nashville), I walked in and thought, "Hey, this can’t be so bad. It’s Beginning Ballet, and the instructor is about 50 years old. And she’s…shall we say…outgrowing her dancer’s body. And it’s only two hours long."
Except this is a real studio. Like where the Nashville Ballet practices and trains (I saw them - I saw the man who will play the Nutcracker. He was huge and jumped about six feet in the air).
This woman Kicked My (Expletive).
She made us do a jumping routine. We had to practice turning. We spent 45 minutes alone at the barre doing plies (knee bends). She made us do splits. And hold them. I can feel muscles in my feet I didn’t know I had because we spent 15 minutes stretching the metatarcle (sp?). I had to crawl to the computer today.
And I have another class on Thursday. For another 2 hours.
It was AWESOME!
(Oh, and a girl smiled at me. Twice.)
(Do you think she likes me?)
