I try to get to my Zumba classes at least 10 minutes early so I can peak into the ballet studio located just down the hall. 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 bright pink Barbie underwear remained in plain sight for all to see when prancing around.
My mum used to sit on the side with the other mums and 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 that my oversized underwear was hanging out.
I decided I had had enough & declared myself finished with ballet. I couldn’t 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. …
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