La Meridionale Ballerina

As much as I admire the discipline necessary to dance one’s way down to having a concave chest (which yes, I have seen), I myself am not disciplined.  At all.

And, it being Valentine’s Day, I love chocolate too much.

(In case you’re wondering, we had a fantastic time eating paella at a great Spanish restaurant downtown.  It really was one of the best meals I’ve eaten: salad with champagne vinaigrette, paella with scallops the size of my fist, homemade focaccia, and a dessert of what I like to call Heaven: chocolate mousse, chocolate brownie, chocolate cake, and chocolate-dipped strawberries.  Oh, and I also ordered a drink in an attempt to be cultured and ended up drinking about two sips before declaring it too strong for my tastes.  Hey, I didn’t want to get silly.)

(Seriously, people, it was some combination of vodka and sparkling wine.  I should learn to stick with fruit smoothies when I want to get fancy.)

Perhaps this post was inspired by that evening’s attire - The Red Dress.  A satin sheath dress with a flounce hem and flamenco dancer-like black lace peeking out of the bottom.  I felt pretty darn cute, mostly because it made me look like I had hips.  It was a strange feeling, walking into a room and feeling curvaceous - not incredibly out of shape, like I do when I go to ballet, but curvaceous.

Like this:

My dear friend Adrienne claims Scarlett I Can’t Spell Her Last Name looks like a beached whale.  To this, I can only say I agree.

If by beached whale you mean Botticelli’s Venus!

Seriously, she looks amazing!  All Old Hollywood bombshell amazing!  The way I wish I looked every day and almost felt like I looked in The Red Dress!  She’s all pale and curvy and pouty, too, which is so incredibly refreshing!

Discipline’s great and everything, but when all’s said and done, I think we would all take a heart-shaped box of Russell Stover’s over a concave chest. 

I think I’ve discovered the secret to domestic happiness: savoring irony.

I wrote of The Boy’s touching daily gesture of skimping on sleep to eat breakfast with me.  He’ll even stumble home, see that we’re out of skim milk (ah, the lettuce and milk debate), run to the grocery store, and come back with both skim milk and vanilla soy milk, just so I’ll have my pick to go with my cereal.  After all, there is no denying the wonder of the Northern Breakfast.

This morning he woke me up to tell me he had brought me breakfast.  He was so excited.

"I really hope you like it.  I drove to the store straight from work, but they didn’t open until 6:30, so I waited until 6:30 just to get it."

Even in my groggy state, part of me smiled at the gesture and part of me latched onto the "I really hope you like it."  Even with cobweb-filled brain, I understood this was a Bad Sign. 

Now, I live for breakfast.  I live for meals, actually, which I start planning in advance (I went to ballet last night thinking of what I could have for lunch today…mostly because we don’t have any groceries at all, but also because, well, that’s another habit left over from college when I had to figure out what was even remotely edible in our dining hall.  Yes, I’m aware this is strange).  But breakfast really is my favorite meal of the day.  You wake up hungry, there’s lots of cereal to choose from, you usually don’t have to cook anything, and you can let the dirty dishes wait until later because it’s only 7 am when you finish.  So I had decided last night honey shredded wheat with skim milk and an apple was my Thursday Breakfast of Champions.

The Boy was so excited.  He got me a blanket to wrap around my shoulders while we ate.  He opened the blinds so we had some light to eat by that wasn’t too jarring.  He led me to the table in my half-blind state since I hadn’t put in my contacts yet.  He pulled out my chair for me (yes, he still does this.  In fact, the only time he doesn’t do it is if we eat at a place with a booth.  I told you he’s great).  And all the while he said, "Oh, I really hope you like it.  I really hope you do.  I waited for the place to open for half an hour."

In front of me I found words I have nightmares about: Chik-Fil-A.

I’ve never eaten at Chik-Fil-A, but it scares me.  I understand it includes a menu with words like "breaded" and "fried" and "buttered" (I’m really not a nutritional freak - my problem is I could eat an entire loaf of bread in one sitting (mmm…bread).  Same with a bag of cookies or a cake or tortilla chips.  But I grew up having never eaten anything fried - I think I’ve had fried chicken twice in my life and hated it).  Also, they put pickles on their sandwiches, which The Boy and I agree are like anthrax - they taint everything they touch with pickle juice, which takes like sour spit. 

But The Boy had mentioned he wanted to try their breakfast sandwiches.  And so here I was with a chicken biscuit in one hand and a buttered biscuit in the other. 

(Even the shiny foil wrapper said "Buttered."  More nightmares.)

"So?  What do you think?"

I unwrapped the wrapper and took a bite.  Juicy.  Buttery.  Flaky.  Greasy.  All at the same time.  It kind of stuck in my mouth.

"Here, let me get you something to drink.  Skim milk?"

I nodded, chewed, and swallowed.

"So, what do you think?"

I looked across from me.  The Boy’s breakfast was untouched and getting cold.  He had gotten me a glass of milk (a short glass, just the way I like it) but had forgotten to get a drink for himself.  He had given me the choice of jams for my Buttered Biscuit, grape and strawberry, and took grape even though he hates it after I picked strawberry.  I had no contacts in, my bangs were sticking straight up, and I had pillow marks all over my cheeks.

"It’s delicious."

Why am I writing this post?  Because I feel like it.

Chou Chou: (French) Our adoptive cat who visits us daily and whines outside our door until I give him milk and tuna fish.  Short for Mon Petit Chou Chou, which is French for "My Adorable Little Cabbage."  Pronounced "shoo shoo."  And now you know why.

Crackerbarrelville: Any location that requires turning left at the entrance to my apartment complex.  In other words, turning north away from the city and into (gasp) the country.  True to its namesake, Crackerbarrelville is an appealing place where people are friendly, the food is good, and there is pretty-smelling hand soap, but it can also get old if you go there too often and miss seeing people wear shirts that don’t have pictures of dogs on them.  Characters include Overly Friendly Guy, Old Lady Smoker, High School Cheerleader who Pronounces "Bucs" as "Ba-uh-cs" and the 20-Something Who Wears Gauchos.

Connect Group: A fancy name for adult Sunday school, this is a class which prepares couples for and discusses the Christian marriage.  We’re taking this to make friends and try to be better people.  Characters include I Know You are a Heathen Man Who Calls Me Smarty Pants (grr), The What is it You Do Again?  You’re a Corrupt Politician Who Shouldn’t Be in Church? Woman, Men Who Know Entirely too Much About Cars, and Women Who Wear Jesus Girl Shirts. 

Fancy French words in italics:  Ballet terms for things I wish I could do.

La Meriodionale Ballerina: (Italian).  Hee hee hee…get it?  Get it? 

Legislative Research Assistant: (Sigh). I don’t know.

Leotard: Standard dancewear for people who never eat bread, cheese, or chocolate. 

Normal Clothes: Any outfit that requires the use of normal undergarments and a hairstyle other than my usual ponytail with headband. 

Northern Breakfast: A breakfast consisting of any of the following: cold cereal with skim milk, bagels and low-fat cream cheese, sliced fruit (especially cantaloupe and honeydew melon), pancakes, turkey bacon, oatmeal, roasted potatoes cooked with spices, chai tea, green tea, French toast made with egg whites, waffles, the tiniest amount of syrup but never butter, or wheat toast with organic peanut butter and jam.  Never includes any of the following: eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, white toast with butter, coffee, sugary fruit topping passed off as fruit, biscuits, or gravy.  Well…maybe biscuits sometimes.

Telecommuting: Working from home, or, sitting at your computer all day because you’re afraid you’ll miss an email and never changing out of your pajamas.  It takes some getting used to.

The Abyss: My apartment.  Aptly named, there are days I do not emerge from it, much like a cave.  Also named for its tendency to swallow anything I am looking for at the time (including my brand new ballet shoes, my tax documents, my favorite sweater…).

The Big Meeting: The company-wide meeting we had in January.  I’m scared.  Hold me. 

The Boy: My favorite news anchor.  Also, the perfect guy.  When you have someone that skimps on the little sleep he gets just to make sure you have a Northern breakfast daily, you’ve got it made.

The Navy S.E.A.L.: My ballet teacher who never smiles and works us so hard I can’t feel my feet the next day.  She is a stout 60-year-old who regularly kicks my (expletive).

The North: Home

The S.E.A.L. was in full force last night.  She seemed really frustrated because we had a bunch of new kids in class who, naturally, took some time to catch on.

(I watched the face of one new girl throughout the class.  At first, she came in all bubbly, asking, "is this the adult ballet class?"  The S.E.A.L. was nagging her the entire time at the bar - "turn your foot out!  You are going to the back - lead with your baby toe!  Feet on the floor, feet on the floor!"  Things didn’t get much better during floor work.  This poor girl left looking like she either wanted to cry or stab someone.  If she hadn’t literally run out of the building after class, I would have pulled her aside to tell her, "it really does get better.  I think.")

I was not lucky enough to escape the S.E.A.L.  I got yelled at.

Scene: Nashville Ballet, Studio A.  At the barre.  Class is beginning first set of ronde de jambes a terre. 

The S.E.A.L. is pacing, but uncharacteristically silent.  She is a large woman - tall and broad - and obviously very muscular.  Class has learned this means she is surprised by their ability to execute something.  This does not, however, allow them to relax.  Rather, it means she is surprised but biding her time to find something wrong. 

Her eyes rest on one Dancer at the end of the center barre.  She mentally checks herself.  Turnout?  Check.  Not gripping the barre?  Check.  Completely circling the leg?  Check. 

The S.E.A.L. pounces.  She stands two inches from this Dancer’s face.  She, nearly a foot taller than this Dancer, looks down menacing. 

S.E.A.L. (sneers): You’re not pulling in your ribcage.

Dancer contracts her stomach, lifts her chest…anything she can do to please.

S.E.A.L. (louder): No, you’re still not pulling in your ribcage!  Pull in!  In!

Dancer repeats these attempts, among other contortions.

S.E.A.L. (shouting):  Pull IN!  IN!  LIKE I PUNCHED YOU IN THE GUT!

I was terrified.  If I had been looking directly at her I would have either cried or melted into a heap on the floor. 

God, I love that woman.

Yesterday was another Sunday, or, as I like to now think of it, "Dress-Like-a-Human-Being-and-Try-and-Make-Friends Day."  So, I did.

I worked the connect group room.  I chatted it up with the popular couples of the class.  And for once, I didn’t get blank stares - I got receptive chatting back.  And I left having succeeded - I got us an invitation to a Superbowl party.

(What accounts for this change?  I could be a Big Person and say I had to adjust my attitude a little.  But I really think it was my shoes - beautiful new black kid leather pumps - bought on sale, of course - with the most perfect little heel.  Yup, it was definitely the shoes.)

Now, I don’t really like the Superbowl.  Living in Buffalo and watching the Bills will do that to you.  But we’re talking about a chance to make friends here.  Oh, and they had free pizza.

(Anyone who knew me in college knows I only joined clubs and activities where free food was offered.  At times I went days without buying myself a meal.  This is an instinct I’ve retained, for better or for worse.  It was almost worth never having a life.)

Guess what?  I had a much better time. 

I chatted with the girls.  I compared ads with the guys.  I got job advice from some of the more seasoned women, which I traded for travel advice to the DC-bound ("Don’t even think about renting a car.  And stand on the right side of the metro escalator or some frenzied commuter in a power suit will knock you out with her briefcase and shove her IPod down your throat").  Most importantly, I brought apples and caramel dip, which everyone loved.

I even secured an invitation to go out next weekend.

So I feel much, much better.  Now, if I could only get myself to change out of these pajama pants…

In all seriousness, Matthew and I made some New Year’s resolutions together.  They include your usual (eat more vegetables, exercise more, be more organized, blah, blah, blah).  One we’ve been working on a lot is, well, trying to develop spiritually.  So we’ve been taking a class for couples about Christian marriage.

The class is part of a program at church called Connect Groups.  I would explain here how this concept of, essentially, adult Sunday school is completely foreign to me, raised as a Catholic, but I will not bestow upon you the privilege of a seek preview of my memoirs (to be published whenever my mother dies so she won’t track me down and burn me at the stake.  You think I’m kidding).  From what I gather, it’s a time to get together and discuss the Bible. 

So, that’s great, right?

Wrong!

We joined said group mainly to meet and make friends with people in a similar life stage as us - young couple preparing for big things.  When we came, we were the novelty of the class: new in town, different life experiences.  No one could get a handle on what I do for a living ("I’m a legislative researcher…I do political research and analysis."  "What?  You’re a lobbyist?"  "No, I’m a…I read laws all day.  And, um, analyze them."  "And where do you work?"  "I telecommute back to DC…I work from home."  "……Oh.").  At first, people seemed genuinely interested and pleased to talk to us.  We had a great time at the Christmas party laughing and carrying on. 

But then things got…different.  We went back home for Christmas and skiing for New Year’s, so we missed a few weeks of class. 

And then things started to happen.  First were the questions:

Them: "So, do you plan on getting married?"

Me (to myself): ("The class is titled Christian Marriage…do you think we can’t read?")

Me (out loud): "Why, yes."

Them: "When?"

Me (to myself): ("Uh…when we’re ready?")

Me (out loud): "Eventually.  Probably in a couple of years."

Them: "Oh, well don’t worry, honey.  I’m sure it will happen this year."

Me (to myself): ("Don’t you pity me because I don’t have a 6-year-old at 23, you, you…redneck!  There, I said it!  What are you gonna do now, punk?")

Me (out loud): *Smile.*

Then came the influx of New Kids.  Most likely with the same intentions, a bunch of new people joined the class, so they became the objects of interest.  The favorite of the class is now a couple that met in November (pay attention here) and is getting married in May.  That’s right - they dated for two months before they got engaged.  And they talk.  A lot.

Now, we’ve got some definite things going against us.  We’re both naturally kind of quiet.  I’m particularly shy and have to force myself to talk.  I’m a professional, unlike most of the girls in the class, and we met in college (again, unlike most of the people in the class, who met in high school).  We don’t see the need to get married after dating for only two or even three years.  I’m almost positive our talk of things that are important to us (jobs, college, things in the news - afterall, he is a News Anchor) makes us come across as huge snobs.  And, to top it all off, we’re from the Heathenish North.

So ever since our return after New Year’s, things have been palpably tense.  No one talks to us.  No one asks us questions.  I try and make small talk and get nothing.  I try and open up about stuff that’s on my mind (hello, work situation!).  And we literally get blank stares.

Is it me? 

It’s so frustrating because I really, genuinely want to make friends.  And I know when I feel I’m unhappy here it’s because I’ve become a crazy person who works from home in their pajamas and writes these things all day.  And I really want to fix it because I know it will make things better.  I know part of me does feel snobby - a lot - and especially about things I don’t really tell strangers because I’m a pretty private person.  And I know I need to work on that - both my thinking and how I come across - because, deep down, I really envy these people who are able to talk about private things and are more spiritual than I am.  And I know I’m probably doubting myself because I’m in a new place and have to start from scratch.  But I don’t know how to fix it.

Maybe they read my blog.

After missing an entire week of ballet for the Big Meeting, I returned to class on Monday, old shoes in hand (never did find the new shoes in The Abyss…grrr).  Immediately upon walking in, I said to myself, "yup, that’s it.  No more food for me."

Everyone in that class is tiny.  I mean tiny.  And it just so happens that everyone that’s tiny is really, really good.  They make everything, even landing their grand jetés, look so light and effortless.  Which is really hard since you have to concentrate on bending your landing leg while keeping the other leg…you don’t care.  Nevermind.  It’s just really hard.

Even the girl who’s not so tiny (i.e., she has a bust) is tiny. 

This little self-esteem blip is fueled by a book I spotted at Borders about ballerinas and nutrition.  Now, I work in health policy, I’ve read every article on nutrition known to man, and I’m a self-declared freak about it.  Also, this book was published in the 80s when, well, the Dove ads (those ads are so gosh darn cool.  They don’t make me want to buy Dove, but they’re still so gosh darn cool.) didn’t exist.  I’m smart enough (I think) to know when something’s good for me.  It’s not that hard, generally.  Broccoli = good.  Entire bag of tortilla chips in one sitting = bad.  Eating a reasonable meal = good.  Starving oneself = bad.

But somehow, this little book combined with tiny dancers ("hold me closer…" Ha. Ha. Ha.) sparked some crazy thoughts.  Especially since the book stated, plain and simple, dancers my height should weigh about 102 pounts.  So yes, that means no more food for me.  I’ll go break out the iceberg lettuce.

(Incidentally, iceberg lettuce is a major source of debate in this new household.  Lettuce and milk.  He says we need iceberg lettuce because it’s way cheaper and that’s what he grew up on and how can it be bad since it’s lettuce?  I say it’s a waste of money because it is devoid of any and all nutrients.  He says skim milk tastes like water and so he’s getting the big jug of 2 percent.  I say 2 percent tastes like liquid butter and why don’t we buy that and a little jug of skim?  Since the theme of this post is gratitude, I’ll just add that we’re so lucky this is our major debate.  Oh, and that I got my way on both counts.)

I beat myself up all class for haven eaten things and, well, stinking (stupid Big Meeting!).  Because I was stinking, I had to watch one of said tiny people execute a combination.  She was quite pretty - a little younger than me - and just looked great in her leotard and tights.  And so light - her jetés were almost airy.  So I sat there (well, stumbled across the floor trying to land properly) and started seething in jealousy.  And did the natural, catty thing we do when we feel jealous - I started to pick her apart. 

("She should fix her hair.")

("Her leotard looks old.  She should replace it.")

("She has a hole in her tights.")

And then I looked at her arm.  Right above the elbow the skin was pulled in very tight, like she had shoved a hair elastic that was too small up to her elbow and it was cutting off her circulation.  In fact, that’s what I wondered - "isn’t her arm numb from that tight band?"

And then I realized it was a prostetic arm. 

Even when I hate it here (and there are times that I do), I have to remember that I really am one of the luckiest people I know.  And it’s simple things, like The Abyss, my job, my partner…my arms…that really, really matter.

I chatted with this girl after class, mostly because I felt the need to atone for my jerky feelings  She was genuinely sweet.  Maybe she can help me with my jetés.     

So I’ve returned from my journey North for the Big Meeting.

(By the way, it is genuinely cold up there.  I’ve gotten wonderfully accustomed to our 60 degree January days down here.)

As I’m writing, I’m debating how much to talk about this (or work in general) because, well, I don’t want to get fired. 

Then again, let’s just say that after attending the Big Meeting, I’m not sure that won’t happen anyway.

I’m overreacting, I know.  I’m taking hints that were dropped to their seventeenth illogical step.  We really talked about improving and developing and growing in order to compete with the Northrop Grummans of the world.  I think, at its heart, the Big Meeting was meant to be a pep rally of some sorts.  There was even fancy food!  Think of it - fancy food.  Little baby crab cakes and Swedish meatballs and weird cheese-dipped pastry things.  You’d think fancy food distract me from the urge to scream PANIC.  But, illogical flipper-outter than I am, it didn’t.  It only gave me a tummy ache. 

But I’m not the only one who’s illogical.  See that website?  That website lists stock prices and shows video clips from CNBC.  Us?  Not so much.

A gem of the two-day extravaganza included a declaration of the goal to double our revenue in two years.

Let me reiterate that for you: Double revenue in two years. 

Fancy food.

(I love italics).

That’s…highly unlikely.  Especially since contract obtainment is a long, slow process that can take months.  It makes me nervous.

Can I interest you in some political research? 

And it feels good to freak out.  A little.  Somehow it reminds me, in that holy-crap way life always seems to remind us, to ask myself, "what do I want to do?"  And the answer remains what it has always been: I have no freaking clue.