Crunking at 30
As I bend my knees for the 15th time, I look around, thinking, "Am I out of my mind?!". The dance studio is filled with professionals, all very young. At least, that's the impression I get. They all seem to be at least a good 10 - 15 years younger than me, and they're all in great shape.
Unlike me. Having spent the better part of the past 9 months bed-ridden, battling illness, my physical is at an all-time low; you can be still be in better shape, although ill when you're younger. Years on, and I'm not that old, but it's tough to get back up.
What scares me the most is the thought: I used to be just like them. I used to be a dancer too, and a gymnast, what I'm doing today is what I loved the most. It never used to hurt; or at least, youth made it that, extreme physical effort never made much difference to me.
But now, I'm reminding myself that I've got to go home after this and cook dinner. I've got to check my daughter's homework, I've got the dishes to wash after, the bath to give, the running after the child; I can't just get home, drop onto my couch and do nothing.
The heat is stifling; no ventilation, no AC: the muscles adapt easier to the different movements and stretches better. It's like trying to rehearse for a Beyonce video and applying the principles of Bikram yoga at the same time. Everyone, not just me, is suffering; the boys are past fatigue. This is tough.
The sweat runs down my spine, my clothes are drenched. I move refusing muscles into 2nd position plié. Hold. Not easy. But fun, yes.
The passion is still there. That reassures me. What would I do if I stopped loving dance? The rhythm? No, music is still my first and foremost love.
Pirouette. Inside, outside, inside, outside. Kick high, higher, keep the leg up, arms out. I feel like even my fingernails are in pain.
Back on the floor; ab work. Crunches, in sets of 16, then floor relevés, legs up and out, arms in 2nd position, rise up fully with your abdominals and hold. This used to be easy; now it's feels like closer to military boot camp.
He says, "If you don't think you can do this to the end, then don't even start the exercises. Dance is where it's at. Sweat, suffer, and bleed."
I look at him in the mirror. A part of me would like to get up and hit him. But he's the teacher, and most of all, I know this guy. Excellent dancer, part of the cast of 4 different musicals on his record. Choreographer for the Cirque de Soleil. Young too; I'm from the older generation of dancers. 20 years ago, while I was dancing on stage, sweating 4 hours a day, this guy was still in junior high. I'm impressed too; he's good. Tough, but with the just the necessary kindness.
There's not much space for kindness and indulgence in dance. It's a tough world, and an even tougher discipline. DISCIPLINE is the master word; you rule your body, your mind; you make your body do things that seem to all who watch so easy, but in fact, is excruciating hell. But you dance from the heart. No passion, no results. In between though, you have to work at it. And work hard.
Smile through the pain; "Ok, rest. Drink water. Fall into Child's position; compensate the effort on the back."
A wave of relief rolls over everyone. Some people go immediately into splits. Another girl, lying on her back works her attitude position. I get some water; others are laughing, everyone is aching. And the air is thick with heat and sweat. I think to myself, "I'd love to jump under a cold shower..."
Back up, work the choreography. I'm not as applied as the others; I'm not going to be dancing this on stage. They are. And this is when they're real talent comes out. I stop after 10 minutes. Cowardly perhaps, but the thought of all that I've got to do at home is somewhere in the forefront of my mind. My daughter needs me to be there, so I learn to pace myself. If I'm going to kill myself physically, I'll do it for her. Not for this. Not anymore.
And off they go! And they are good! Most of all, the passion comes out; each has a different flow; the youngest is barely 16. She's a little shy, but when the music comes on, she's no longer just a teenager; she's a dancer. The head of the company sits by me; she's nearly 50 and we've worked together a long time. We go back a long time, and she grins at me as I look at the girl dancing. I'm in awe. She has dance in her blood.
"Great, huh?"
I nod; yes, the kind of dancer you see rarely. Lots are good; most of have learned pat down excellent technique, but you get those dancers that are more than that. They've got the love, yes, but they've also got the star quality; D inches closer to me, her parents are against her becoming a professional dancer, she tells me. They want her to do something more "serious". "A pity." she says. Yes, indeed, a great pity; this girl could really be something. It's fascinating and awesome to see the beginnings, the potential of a truly great dancer. A little like watching Baryshnikov still at school.
I shrug, "Maybe she will. You never know." D looks at me skeptically; D's been teaching, heading international dance schools, choreographing now for 30 years. Well, it happens. But you never know; I can tell you all something; once you have that passion, that love, it never goes away. It's hard to get rid of. It's just in you, that's all. I don't know if I was ever a great, great dancer; but I did truly love what I did.
Still do in fact.
They're all having fun; I smile, the smells are familiar and bring back so many memories. The chalk, the sweat, that closed air that you only find in a dance studio, the smell of the lycra and cotton, the smell of your shoes. My daughter loves this too; I've often caught her lifting her nose and breathing in the smells as she walks into ballet class. I understand. It's a distinctive mix of smells, only to be found here.
She's a dancer too; I've been teaching her since she could walk. Attitude, the feet positions, pirouettes, déboulés, etc. She loves it; she loves her outfit, her little pink slippers. She often cradles lovingly my old pointe shoes. Although they're used, stained and old, I hang them up in the living room, like a trophy of some kind. My daughter wonderingly loves to look at them, feel them; she asks me when she'll be ready to use shoes like these.
"Soon, soon. Don't hurry; you need to be ready to wear them. Work hard, and you'll see. In no time, you'll be on pointes."
She nods; she loves me taking to her the ballet. She dreams of being Sleeping Beauty, Giselle, Odette. I see them all playing out in her mind.
Class is over. 2 hours of pain, but good. D asks me, "Are you coming back next week?".
I smile; why of course! Where else would I want to go?
We all come back home at some point.
Unlike me. Having spent the better part of the past 9 months bed-ridden, battling illness, my physical is at an all-time low; you can be still be in better shape, although ill when you're younger. Years on, and I'm not that old, but it's tough to get back up.
What scares me the most is the thought: I used to be just like them. I used to be a dancer too, and a gymnast, what I'm doing today is what I loved the most. It never used to hurt; or at least, youth made it that, extreme physical effort never made much difference to me.
But now, I'm reminding myself that I've got to go home after this and cook dinner. I've got to check my daughter's homework, I've got the dishes to wash after, the bath to give, the running after the child; I can't just get home, drop onto my couch and do nothing.
The heat is stifling; no ventilation, no AC: the muscles adapt easier to the different movements and stretches better. It's like trying to rehearse for a Beyonce video and applying the principles of Bikram yoga at the same time. Everyone, not just me, is suffering; the boys are past fatigue. This is tough.
The sweat runs down my spine, my clothes are drenched. I move refusing muscles into 2nd position plié. Hold. Not easy. But fun, yes.
The passion is still there. That reassures me. What would I do if I stopped loving dance? The rhythm? No, music is still my first and foremost love.
Pirouette. Inside, outside, inside, outside. Kick high, higher, keep the leg up, arms out. I feel like even my fingernails are in pain.
Back on the floor; ab work. Crunches, in sets of 16, then floor relevés, legs up and out, arms in 2nd position, rise up fully with your abdominals and hold. This used to be easy; now it's feels like closer to military boot camp.
He says, "If you don't think you can do this to the end, then don't even start the exercises. Dance is where it's at. Sweat, suffer, and bleed."
I look at him in the mirror. A part of me would like to get up and hit him. But he's the teacher, and most of all, I know this guy. Excellent dancer, part of the cast of 4 different musicals on his record. Choreographer for the Cirque de Soleil. Young too; I'm from the older generation of dancers. 20 years ago, while I was dancing on stage, sweating 4 hours a day, this guy was still in junior high. I'm impressed too; he's good. Tough, but with the just the necessary kindness.
There's not much space for kindness and indulgence in dance. It's a tough world, and an even tougher discipline. DISCIPLINE is the master word; you rule your body, your mind; you make your body do things that seem to all who watch so easy, but in fact, is excruciating hell. But you dance from the heart. No passion, no results. In between though, you have to work at it. And work hard.
Smile through the pain; "Ok, rest. Drink water. Fall into Child's position; compensate the effort on the back."
A wave of relief rolls over everyone. Some people go immediately into splits. Another girl, lying on her back works her attitude position. I get some water; others are laughing, everyone is aching. And the air is thick with heat and sweat. I think to myself, "I'd love to jump under a cold shower..."
Back up, work the choreography. I'm not as applied as the others; I'm not going to be dancing this on stage. They are. And this is when they're real talent comes out. I stop after 10 minutes. Cowardly perhaps, but the thought of all that I've got to do at home is somewhere in the forefront of my mind. My daughter needs me to be there, so I learn to pace myself. If I'm going to kill myself physically, I'll do it for her. Not for this. Not anymore.
And off they go! And they are good! Most of all, the passion comes out; each has a different flow; the youngest is barely 16. She's a little shy, but when the music comes on, she's no longer just a teenager; she's a dancer. The head of the company sits by me; she's nearly 50 and we've worked together a long time. We go back a long time, and she grins at me as I look at the girl dancing. I'm in awe. She has dance in her blood.
"Great, huh?"
I nod; yes, the kind of dancer you see rarely. Lots are good; most of have learned pat down excellent technique, but you get those dancers that are more than that. They've got the love, yes, but they've also got the star quality; D inches closer to me, her parents are against her becoming a professional dancer, she tells me. They want her to do something more "serious". "A pity." she says. Yes, indeed, a great pity; this girl could really be something. It's fascinating and awesome to see the beginnings, the potential of a truly great dancer. A little like watching Baryshnikov still at school.
I shrug, "Maybe she will. You never know." D looks at me skeptically; D's been teaching, heading international dance schools, choreographing now for 30 years. Well, it happens. But you never know; I can tell you all something; once you have that passion, that love, it never goes away. It's hard to get rid of. It's just in you, that's all. I don't know if I was ever a great, great dancer; but I did truly love what I did.
Still do in fact.
They're all having fun; I smile, the smells are familiar and bring back so many memories. The chalk, the sweat, that closed air that you only find in a dance studio, the smell of the lycra and cotton, the smell of your shoes. My daughter loves this too; I've often caught her lifting her nose and breathing in the smells as she walks into ballet class. I understand. It's a distinctive mix of smells, only to be found here.
She's a dancer too; I've been teaching her since she could walk. Attitude, the feet positions, pirouettes, déboulés, etc. She loves it; she loves her outfit, her little pink slippers. She often cradles lovingly my old pointe shoes. Although they're used, stained and old, I hang them up in the living room, like a trophy of some kind. My daughter wonderingly loves to look at them, feel them; she asks me when she'll be ready to use shoes like these.
"Soon, soon. Don't hurry; you need to be ready to wear them. Work hard, and you'll see. In no time, you'll be on pointes."
She nods; she loves me taking to her the ballet. She dreams of being Sleeping Beauty, Giselle, Odette. I see them all playing out in her mind.
Class is over. 2 hours of pain, but good. D asks me, "Are you coming back next week?".
I smile; why of course! Where else would I want to go?
We all come back home at some point.