La Meridionale Ballerina

I’m an idiot.

Three months ago, in December, The Boy and I attended the Sunday performance of the Nashville Ballet’s Nutcracker.  Starring in that performance was a couple, Jennifer McNamara and Matthew Christensen, who performed as both the Snow King and Queen and the Sugar Plum Fairy pas de deux.  Their profile in the program said they studied together as pas de deux partners for years before getting married and are both recipients of the two Tennessee state fellowships for performing arts.  Jennifer McNamara is the Nashville Ballet’s prima ballerina.  I read about them in the program with awe, which of course was replaced by utter worship once I saw them on stage.  Really, they were quite good - delicate yet precise.  Even The Boy declared that Matthew Christensen was "a really good ballerino."

(He refuses to admit there may be a linkage between cavaliers and the University of Virginia, hence the term "ballerino.")

Guess who’s been my pilates teacher for the past month?

That’s right.  Jennifer McNamara.

Guess who was completely oblivious to this fact?

That’s right.  Me.

I should have known, mostly because this woman would demonstrate a move that basically involved lying down and putting ones ankle behind ones ear.  And then I would attempt to imitate and end up with my ankle on level with, say, my knee.  Her husband even taught the class when she was "out of town" - a synonym for "preparing for her solo performance on Friday!"

To this more embarrassing, I walked right up to her before I started taking pilates and asked her if she was in the Adult Jazz class.  She was so polite and sweet when she could have just looked at me incredulously and said, "Honey, I am that jazz class, and every other class for that matter.  I’m The Chosen One in The Rite of Spring!"

I feel this incredible urge to go up to her and say, "yeah, I’m dumb and didn’t know who you were.  You are my idol.  Oh, and I really like your pilates class, too."

At least I still have the excuse that I’m new here.  That excuse is good for a least a year.

Right?

Sigh.  I’m going to go practice Rolling Like a Ball now.

Perhaps inspired by the gorgeous weather we’ve been having (highs in the 70s), I got my hair highlighted yesterday. 

I’d been meaning to do it since December, but had trouble finding a hairdresser I really liked down here.

(Okay, that’s a lie - really I’m too lazy and too chicken to mess with my hair.)

And now I’m blonde!

(Okay, that’s a lie, too - I’m still a brunnette with light streaks that are one shade lighter than normal.  But, as I am a chicken about changing my hair, it feels like it’s platinum blonde.)

I have yet to actually do my hair (it was hastily thrown up in a bun for class), so I’m not sure what the full effect of this new look will be. 

It definitely felt like a pick-me-up, though.

And I need one.  I’ve been in a funk this week and last night realized why: my newfound friend from ballet is leaving to move to California today.  We only knew each other a couple of weeks, but she’s absolutely great.  We would chat in the parking lot after class until 10:30 at night, even in the freezing cold and once in pouring rain.  She moved here from Indiana (went to Purdue) and completed an internship at Hatch downtown (famous printshop).  Now she’s moving out to San Diego to join her fiancé, Matt (hmm…sound familiar?).

Which makes me want to ponder about how people become close friends - obviously, there’s proximity, and shared interest, but what else makes that click?  I chat with girls at ballet all the time, even about big things, but haven’t connected with anyone yet like I did with Laurie.  Is it just that we were newbies in Nashville and dealing with our slightly inept Thursday night teacher who calls changements "changing into fifth" (why can’t you just say what they’re called so people learn?!)?  Or, as I like to think, did we really have that kind of connection that can (will?  Hopefully!) blossom into friendship?  And then I start to want to ponder about what’s really bugging me - the fact that not only is she leaving, but I kind of have to start the Friendship Quest all over again.   

But I won’t.  I’ve got blonde hair to flip.

In an attempt to compete with Adrienne’s blog (why can’t I write about celebrity cellulite?  Why?), I present to you my juicy tidbit that will turn into a rant.

You’ve been warned.

I went home last week for a full-fledged visit, complete with visits with Adrienne and Orsi (yay!  I miss them so very much!), Metro trips to the museum and my Dad taking us out to dinner.  And, like all visits home, long discussions with Mom because I never call home enough. 

(*Sigh*)

In between listening to how much she wants to reupholster the living room furniture in some hideous paisley fabric and sponge-paint the walls (don’t even get me started about our orange - I mean, oxblood - family room…my Dad says she’s going to paint the walls so much the house will close in on itself someday), she shared some interesting gossip about an Ex.

Gasp!

(I should explain here that Mom is still in love with Ex.  Yes, Mom.  That is a long, long story, best saved for a visit home or you coming here.  I’ll take you to this park and we can talk.  And then, since it will close before I’m finished with the story, I’ll take you to this restaurant and tell you the rest.  You’ll want to tell me to shut up already, but at least the food will be really yummy.)

So, after testing the waters to see if I still have feelings for Ex (the answer is NO, Mom, not since a long time ago), Mom reveals her Big Secret: Ex is seeing someone.

My initial honest reaction: it’s about time!  Now maybe he’ll stop calling.

Then Mom releases her Big Shocking News: Ex is seeing his ex, who he was dumped by, received a restraining order from, was still in love with while he was dating me, and very likely cheated on me with while pulling the classic "I love you, but I’m not in love with you" before I woke up and realized, "hey, this guy has had a restraining order issued against him.  And he can’t spell specific.  Kiddo, you can probably do better."

(Once again, Mom thinks this man is The Greatest Human Being on the Planet, Especially as a Relationship Partner.  To which I say, rumor has it he’s available.) 

(Or, was.  But I digress.)

So, frankly, this feels like a righting of wrongs.  I never felt too great about the way I broke up with Ex (do you have time to talk over dessert, too?  I hear Tin Angel has great cappuccino ) - I equated it to ripping off a band-aid.  But I felt so great about finally saying, yep, we’re done.  And I haven’t looked back since (honestly).

So I feel kind of good that he’s found someone (again) and they’re on the road to being happy (again.  Or in jail).

But back to the point of this point - Mom gets upset with me because this doesn’t hurt my feelings!

Wha?

So first I get a double-check ("Are you sure this doesn’t bother you?"  "Yes, Mom.").  Then a triple-check ("Are you sure?"  "Yes, Mom.").  Then a why not ("You know, it stopped bothering me a long, long time ago.").  And then the accusation that I am lying (I’m not). 

And then - here it comes - the accusation that I’m cold hearted (Phsaw!  You haven’t met the S.E.A.L.!).

I don’t think I’m cold-hearted, right?  I mean…is it wrong to say I honestly don’t care? 

I care a little bit (not dead in a car accident?  Still has a job and a place to live?  Great!  That’s about all I need to know).  I was a tiny bit bitter (do I sound bitter?), but not anymore.  Seriously.  Guy, if you want to be with the girl who got a restraining order out on you, go ahead.  Girl, if you want to be with the guy you got a restraining order out on (what on earth?!), go ahead.  Good luck.

And if it doesn’t work out, I hear my Mom’s interested.

Married, but interested.  Oh, and she can spell specific.

Such a dilemma that I’m sure only I care about.

(Really, this post is so ballet-specific I’m sure you don’t care. Seriously, stop reading - I won’t be offended.  But I’m writing it anyway because I can!)

This week is the last week of the ballet semester.  Next week is the next quarter, which means two things.  First, I’m out another $250.  Second (more importantly…can you sense the dellusion here?  That’s like six pairs of shoes!), I need to figure out what classes to take.

Right now I’m taking four classes a week (3 ballet and one pilates - don’t ask how I got started with the pilates).  My legs are so sore I could cry and I literally have trouble wearing pants because it’s too painful to pull them over my thighs.  I have no life during the week anyway (evidenced by the fact that yes, I watch Flavor of Love) and now I especially don’t have a life.  At least, a life that involves wearing materials other than cotton and spandex blends.

But…I’m getting…better.  I can hold my balances steady (for the most part, even if just for a split second), I am almost down in my splits (who ever thought that would happen again?), and my tendus and such are (dare I say?) quite good.  I even did an adage (tombé, arabasque en relevé, hold for eight counts, promenade…nevermind, it’s just hard because it’s slow with a lot of holding legs in the air) the other night with minimal wobbling!

Most importantly, I was singled out as one of the Cool Kids by the S.E.A.L. 

Yeah, I know.  Amazing, isn’t it?

(The Cool Kids are two young dancers who are taking this class to supplement their regular prepare-me-to-dance-professionally-at-16 classes.  Incidently, they’re also really tiny.)

We were doing a rather simple combination (jetés) that, of course, the S.E.A.L. made complicated by adding a bunch of arm stuff.  But I got it.  She looked around the room, told the people on the right to start jumping instead of standing (ouch!).  She looked at the Cool Kids and told them (her favorite word - should) they should be working on bringing their jumping leg to meet their extended leg in the air (nevermind, it’s just hard because you have to…nevermind).  Then she looked at me and said, "you’re almost there - you should be working on that, too."

Yeah, I know.  Can you believe it?  I was beaming.

So here’s the question: should I take the harder class to challenge myself?  At the expense of the pilates class, which I secretly like because I think it’s helping me get better?  Not only is the harder class full of the Cool Kids, I spotted the Professional Dancer from California in there.  That’s right - Professional Dancer (she’s really nice - she just moved here, too).  And guess what?  She was struggling.

The Boy, always the Coach, says I should go for it.

All I say is that if this is such a hard decision, how on earth am I ever going to go to grad school and do something useful with myself?   

I know one thing, though.  I need a massage.