Do you ever wake up on a Sunday and decide that you’re not going to take a shower but the prickles in your armpits are uncomfortable so you scrape them with a dry, twin-blade, Venus knock-off and all seems fine until about 15 minutes later when your pits burn with the intensity of a white-hot sun? And then later in the day you decide to go ahead and take a shower and while doing so absent-mindedly drag that same razor across your pits again and scream with the sensation of having smeared wasabi on an open wound?
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.