"A Problem Page For All!"

We had our first rehearsal today. The choreography is so simple that I was a little bored, actually: we learned the beginning of the "pumpkin patch" dance, and I felt so old with all those little kids in pink leotards and grubby tee-shirts, their uncoordinated limbs flopping around, their toes unpointed next to my casually controlled movements, my 13-years-of-dance-trained-muscle coordination. Nia resents me. Who am I to dance the lead role while she, an earnest 14 years old and not a bad dancer by any means, prances around depicting a pumpkin, for Heaven's sake?

Who am I, anyway? I feel tired. I have a pulled hamstring. I've never had that before. It sounds so quintessentially dancerish, doesn't it? "Oh, yes, I have a pulled hamstring," casually, wincing a bit, breezing in and out. I told Rebecca, with a frank smile, that I would practice at home. "As if you needed to!" she exclaimed. I don't want to be this special. I want to be just another dancer. I miss my peers. Where are they, the cohort I used to be a part of, the Tuesday afternoon (4:30, always 4:30) modern-technique-level-IV teenagers? I think Login went to college. Branden dropped out a while ago. Jill never stuck around. Rachel's been shunned by Liz. Same for Sara -- she's probably at college, too, preparing for her brilliant political career. Coleen might still be around, if she ever recovered from her broken knee (broken, I might add, during a Tuesday-at-4:30 dance class when a seemingly effortless leap turned drastic). And I...I come and go, usually gone, back for a while, to breeze in and out and dance the solo role. Casually. Effortlessly. Nursing my pulled hamstring, making adult jokes with the choreographer while the little ones look on in envy.

I am tired.


To respond to you, Cat: It's not that hard to balance on your hands, since the move takes only a second or so, but I used to never be able to do them when my wrists were weaker than they are now.

And yes, Franny is the one with the Yahoo! photo album. You two are similar, sort of; I'm not surprised you liked her journal.

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