I have mentioned perhaps once or twice here that I used to be a dancer. Twelve years, to be exact. And lordy, do I have me some stories. Like the one time, when I was 12, and my Barry Manilow-obsessed dance instructor made us rehearse a little number to the "Copacabana" over and over and over. Her name was Lola...indeed.
Or in college, where I had a "dance class" that consisted of 12 of us laying in the dark in the dance studio with our eyes closed, and we were told to just "move when we felt like it". I still can't believe I got a grade in a class where all I did was doze off, roll around randomly and sneak peeks at everyone else looking as idiotic as I did.
But today...today I was feeling nostalgic for the old days where I lived in leotards and tights and my feet began their steady downward spiral into the gnarly trotters that currently live at the ends of my legs.
Ahhh, good times.
For y'all, my own little "dance of the whiskey plum fairy":
(feel free to play the video to help set the mood)
I don't seem to have any of my "dance attire" left besides my old toe shoes, so I created a tutu using everyday household garbage bags and the leg of a pair of tights. Feel free to steal this idea the next time you are experiencing a tutu emergency.
I'm smiling here, but I'm crying on the inside. After fourteen tries to get "en pointe" and stay there for more than 1.2 seconds, I fear I may have to lose a toe or two as several of them seem to have died from lack of circulation. On the up side, the Chinese foot binding I had planned for later today will probably go a little smoother minus a few little piggies.
Lacking a real partner, I enlist the help of the only other being in the house that will willingly participate in my elaborate production, the great ballerina Pooterina Von Poontana.
I had a big finish planned where I was gloriously lifted into the air and spun around, a la "The Little Mermaid on Ice"- but again, that whole issue of no one being home but me put a damper on that idea. I tried to get Pooter to lift me, but I could tell by her muffled mews when I landed on top of her most ungracefully coming out of that leap that she was uninterested in playing the part of Baryshnikov.
So I enlisted an inanimate object instead. Use your imagination.
Happy St. Patrick's day to all my drunken Irish friends out there, whoever you are.