Me and Ballet, A Thing of Beauty

When I was 33 and lived in St. Louis, I got it in my mind that I wanted to take a ballet class. I found one at Forest Park Community College. Wearing pink tights and a leotard for the first time in 24 years, I was relieved to find the class full of housewives – women who wanted just one hour a week to get out of the house, move to pristine music and maybe, just maybe, feel beautiful.

About fifteen minutes into the first class a bodacious black woman stepped away from the barre, pointed at the instructor and said “Now you listen here, sister. I have no intention of becoming a prima ballerina.” The studio was silent for a tense moment until, I kid you not, the Asian lady at the end of the barre farted. She farted. Well, that pretty much sealed the deal. There would be no prima ballerinas at FPCC.

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Filed under aging, autobigraphy, body image, dance, flash fiction, humor, sarcasm, Uncategorized, women, writing

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