my posture a’int great and neither is my american-bred-english language.

i used to have pristine posture.

the kind people would envy.

but it came at a price that i still haven’t come to terms with.

40 hours a week in a ballet studio. 40 hours a week of staring at myself practically NAKED in a room full of girls who were also practically NAKED. 40 hours a week of trying to be perfect. 40 hours a week of trying to have the best posture . . . the best turn-out . . . the best legs . . . the best collar bones . . . (yup, there is such a thing. who knew.) . . . the best arabesque . . . the best everything.

fast forward to 3 knee surgeries, a little growing up, and a resignation to the ballet world . . .

[before it killed me from the waist down]

. . .

. . . and i tend to slouch.

like.

all.

the.

time.

 

is this a subconscious act of rebellion?

[of all the photos i could have selected. this one. this is the one. because

(a) try and put your leg in that position above your head and not pull a muscle in your back. i dare you.

(b) it’s just so seemingly random.

(c) this is one of the very few pieces we ever danced in flats and dancing in flats meant that were weren’t dancing in pointe shoes and anything that gave our feet a break from balancing on our tippy-toes, crammed inside some satin and a block of wood, was a good thing.

(d) this was one of my favorite pieces of choreography. ever. more favorite than swan lake. but not more favorite than the nutcracker which i still, to this day, can not sit through because it yields a nostalgia that is almost unbearable.

 

oh.

 

and i curse like a sailor.

 

one has nuthin’ to do with the other.

 

so, there’s that.