fogged windows and springy floors.

A couple of weeks ago I was in the leotard that reminds me that I'm not 13 anymore (and my 13 year old body has also disappeared with the time), standing at the barre, ready to begin the plie exercise that my teacher had just given. It had only been 2 weeks of steady dancing (for the first time in 8 years) and my body was really struggling to handle the heavy dance load I was undertaking every single day. There's no question that I love to dance, but some days you just get so exhausted, your mind is so tired, and the thought of lifting your leg, or pushing yourself into the air, or dancing in pointe shoes for 2 hours just does not seem appealing in the slightest. We still hadn't found a pianist for the Tuesday/Thursday classes yet, so my teacher had to head over to the sound system to start the CD. I placed my feet and arms into first position and moved my head the obligatory angle for the beginning position and resigned myself to just get through the class as best as I could.

And then I heard the music.

And I saw the left corner studio with the barre along the left side of the room, next to the mirror. In the middle of the floor were more barres that would be carried to the back of the room before center work, in front of the other mirror. On the right side of the room were the windows that would become ridiculously fogged each class. I still remember making smiley faces and writing our names inside of hearts on those windows while waiting for our turn across the floor. And I saw the CD player on the far side of the room, near the beginning of the barre, with Ms. McLean instructing our class on the exercise, showing us the precise placement of our fingers and heads. I can still smell that room and I can still feel what the grey marley floor feels like.

So few people in my life understand how important dance used to be to me. My parents understand because they lived (and paid for) it, but to everyone else, it's something they've heard about, but like most things in life, probably feel that the memories have been a bit over exaggerated. From the time that I was 9 years old, until I was 13, ballet was my life. Yes, I figure skated. I spent hours at Yoshie's house preparing for piano competitions. I traveled into the city all the time, auditioning for musicals. But from 3-8 p.m. every Tuesday-Thursday and 8-2 every Saturday, I was at the studio, becoming a ballerina. In fact, I attribute much of the struggle I faced in high school and the beginning of college to the void felt from the absence of dance in my life.

The second that music began, I saw that particular dance room so vividly, and even more clearly, I heard Ms. McLean say, "Come on Jen, I know you can push yourself more than this." A few tears came into my eyes as I remembered dancing to that exact song over 8 years ago, back when adult life wasn't even imagined, during a time when things were easy and dreams attainable. Instead of Marsha, I pictured Laura McLean, with her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a severe ponytail, and her heeled leather ballet shoes, and I resolved to get my leg a little higher that day.

All because of a silly piano melody.