Seriously. From age nine to summer of my 17th year, I planned in earnest to be a professional ballerina.
I took classes several days a week, combed the minuscule “dance” shelf at Barnes and Nobles for books I hadn’t already bought (pre-internet days, friends), wore my Bloch pointe shoes around the house, and read Gelsey Kirkland’s horrifying book “Dancing on my grave” repeatedly.
Despite fostering a healthy obsession for Leslie Caron, reading French and Russian ballet methods, and wearing out my from-TV recording of Swan Lake, my dream was not to be.
Besides, um, a healthy Italian appetite and blossoming into a very non-ballerina type body early in high school, I had hip surgery which derailed my dancing almost permanently. Sigh.
I was reminiscing about dance this week when a student asked if I “always knew” I wanted to be a professor. “No way!” I told her, admitting I wanted to a ballerina when I grew up. She laughed and said “Me, too!”
We talked about life’s meandering paths and I contemplated just how a wannabe ballerina ended up with a PhD and the nerdiest job on earth. (The answer would have to be shared in a compendium of blog posts.) Although I get a little wistful watching my teenage nieces excel at dancing and sometimes I pretend that my zumba ladies and I are preparing for a show instead of just exercising, I’m so grateful to be where I am today. I must admit that I do miss my toe shoes though!
11/1- Tag, I’m it for NaBloPoMo