i try to get to my zumba class at least 10 minutes early so i can peek into the ballet studio located just down the hall from class. i stand there, giddy, watching the ballerinas gracefully move with the music from the piano. i love their leotards. i love their tights. i love their flats.
i once was a ballerina. i was four. maybe five. i can’t quite remember… but i do remember that i insisted on wearing my underwear with my leotard. so, naturally, my muppet baby underwear remained in plain sight for all to see when prancing around.
my mom used to sit on the side with the other moms & whisper “come here!” coaxing me over to the side in between leaps & twirls. she would quickly try & adjust my leotard as to hide the fact my oversized underwear was hanging out.
i decided i had had enough & declared myself finished with ballet. i could not handle the constant shoving-of-the-underwear-back-into-my-leotard. personally, i didn’t mind the extra fabric sticking out the sides.
perhaps that was a sign that “grace” is not my strong suit…