When I was two or three, my mom signed me up for ballet. Well, she signed me up for a movement class but I really liked tutus — I had a flair for drama at an early age. While everyone else was in t-shirts and pants with cartoon characters on them, I was wearing my ballet shoes and tights and the biggest tutu I could find.
I can’t remember the duration of the class but I can recall going to the gymnasium of the local community centre every week and having a blast. I know that I had a blast because I was told I cried like a banshee when it was time to go (Every. Single. Week.) much to my mother’s delight.
My first recital was a little bit of a gong show. You see, my mother loved to braid my bangs with beads on the ends of them. I thought this was pretty snazzy because I always made music when I walked. And so I begged her to do so for my first performance. This was awesome for about five seconds until the little girl beside me noticed my beads and wanted to play with them, too. I would like to point out that I usually wore beads in my hair, at either the front or the back, and at this point this child had known me for at least two months and had never bothered with my hair before.
During my debut as the most energetic sunshine ballerina ever, this little girl started batting my beads around like a cat plays with a ball of yarn. I obviously couldn’t stand for that and so I moved forward a little. She followed. So I moved forward even more. Apparently she really liked my beads, because she followed me again. I was “forced” to move very far forward, downstage centre to be exact, to be out of the reach of her batting hands.
Unfortunately (fortunately?) I was now out of sight of my instructor, who was doing our dance backstage. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. All I knew was that I was finally out of reach of her pawing hands and that music playing meant dancing. So, I danced… vigorously.
