Rediscovering Ballet (in Middle Age)

You know how they say, If you ask people what they would do for a living if they could choose anything, nine out of ten would name a career in the arts? Well, I'm no different: I would have been a ballerina girl.

Just looking at this picture makes me feel all weird inside. Love, admiration, envy, regret ... mostly love.

It seems almost an impossible task to sit down now and trace back to the roots of my love of ballet. No one in my family did it. Truthfully, we were pretty poor so all those classes were probably quite a hardship on my family. But I did like to read, and I got that from my dad. I even had a little library in the basement where neighborhood kids could come and check out books if they wanted (nobody ever wanted).

This was one of my books:

It's the story of a little girl named Carol who had weak legs (from Polio), so her doctor suggested ballet lessons to strengthen them. It was full of images like these:

So, Carol starts out with these cool braids, talks to a groovy chick wearing a tunic and headband, then she gets to dress up and dance around in fluffy outfits with a starry wand and other little girls dressed up as flowers. How is that not the coolest thing ever? I was hooked.

If the coffin needed a nail, it came when my mom was watching a movie called "The Red Shoes."

If you haven't seen it (see it), Moira Shearer stars as a dancer who joins a company and ... well, who really cares what the movie is about; the ballet she's in ("The Red Shoes") is about a pair of enchanted red pointe shoes which never let her stop dancing or take them off. She dies in the end. -- Yeah, it's kind of a fucked up movie for a little kid, but WHO CARES, right?!? There are these beautiful beautiful shiny red shoes that imbue the dancer with amazing talent and stamina. It's so magical!

So my mom put me in a ballet class. I was six years old and probably looked a little like this, when I started: a dopey little plump pink dumpling of uncoordinated energy bouncing around the room.

Before too long, though, I was a star:

(dig the tiara -- and how about that arabesque, eh?)

This was our International Recital. I lobbied hard for the Russian part, and finally beat out Julie Druga (who's Hungarian anyways). Note my haughty Communist demeanor. And black pointe shoes; those were the coolest.

In the end, I studied dance for ten years, and I gotta say, I was pretty good. One of my instructors suggested I consider auditioning for the Cleveland Ballet. 

But one morning, I woke up and had these:

(stunt model)

And that was the end of a ballet career for me. Because this is what a ballerina looks like:

Not this:

Yes, I know there's a world of difference between those two extremes, but not in ballet. There's thin, then there's everything else. And, for better or worse, I come from a long line of Russian peasants who used their short strong stocky bodies to carry the ox back to the barn if it was injured. These people are not my grandparents, but they could have been:

For myself, I understood, quite quickly and quite realistically, that I could probably still dance professionally (and starve myself thin), but I would never be a soloist; I would forever be resigned to the chorus.

See how all those dancers look the same? That's on purpose.

Well, I had too much of an ego to not be a Star (capital "S"), so instead I went to college, then more school, then more school, and now I'm a doctor. But I never forgot about being a dancer. There's not a ballet movie I haven't seen, from Misha in "Turning Point" and "White Nights" to....

Wait, you don't know who Misha is? Well, if you're a "Sex and the City" fan, you know him as this guy:

But if you're a dancer, you know him as this guy:

Or this guy:

Or, even in his later years, as this guy:

OK. Moving on.

So. I've seen every ballet movie, and I've sought out live ballet performances no matter where I've traveled, from Chicago to Paris, even if I'm only there for a couple of days. I don't cry every time anymore, but sometimes a dancer will still do something so lovely and ephemeral, I can't quite catch my breath for a moment. And sometimes I do still cry.

But now I am old enough that, even had I been a successful dancer, I would not be one anymore. I would not be in the middle of my professional career, as I am as a veterinarian, but well past its end. My body would probably hurt in more ways than it already does, albeit different ways. The life of a dancer is very physical, sometimes in brutal ways.

But maybe my soul would ache a little less.

So in an effort to recreate my past (never a good idea), I enrolled at a local dance studio. I'm old enough now to know how to suffer embarrassment and failed expectations with grace and a little humor, and I also know that it's my own hard-earned money, and as long as I'm not hurting anyone else (or holding back the class), it's my own business if I want to make an ass of myself.

So this week, I made an ass of myself. I showed up to find myself one of four students in the class. To say that tallying their ages would lead you to mine is a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. Similarly, the instructor was about twenty years old. Well, I told myself, that's how old your instructor was when you were ten, so adjust your perspective.

I also needed to adjust my perspective as to what my body really looks like. I will say this: I look pretty good for a woman nearing fifty. However, I do not look as good as a twenty year old, especially when I'm wearing a leotard and tights, which I have since which time learned is not nearly hip enough for these modern times. Oh yes, fellow dancers, should you not already know this, the modern dancer has just as many accessories (skirts, sweaters, wraps, leg warmers) as Victoria Beckham attending Fashion Week.

Me.

Other students in class.

Although it's not terribly dramatic, not a lot happened for the next hour. There were some things my body remembered to do and still could (pliés, tendus, ronds de jamb). There were some things my body remembered but could no longer do (spotting, arabesque). And when it came time to move away from the barre and do turns across the floor, I came to a sudden realization that I have not voluntarily turned to the right once in the past thirty years. -- I confess, I do occasionally dance a bit in my kitchen, especially now after the remodel made it bigger, but every single pirouette I've done in that kitchen (or elsewhere) has been to the left, my stronger side. It turns out, I'm Derek Zoolander!

Fortunately, my instructor took pity on me (and my classmates -- hey, fatal injuries have been known to occur!), and let me do some balance work instead of full turns on the right-hand side. I nailed the left side, though!

In the end, I was both better and worse than expected. It was painful to look at my body in a mirror for 90 minutes in a row, but I had to admit it could be worse. It was humbling to have neither the balance nor flexibility I once had, but I was surprised my feet at least remembered how to do all those things, whether they could do them or not. And it was, face it, vaguely embarrassing to be a middle-aged broad in a room full of energetic young women -- do we ever REALLY get over feeling like the geeky kid in the class?

But it felt good. And, geeky or no, I liked it. I'm not Gelsey Kirkland or Natalia Makarova or Suzanne Farrell -- I never was, and I never will be. I'll probably never again get my both my feet behind my head. But it doesn't mean I have to stop trying.

Day Zero

Today was a very strange day.

I've been planning my sabbatical for a few months now, knowing it was coming, making plans for its activities,... Even sometimes viciously thinking, "Well I won't have to put up with THIS again for another couple months!" during particularly trying work crises.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say this morning, my last workday before the start of my sabbatical, I found myself nearly giddy at its imminent arrival, merely twelve hours from where I was standing. It was really here! I'm really going to work today, then not again until October. In between, I'm going to Austria, and Turkey, and Iceland (ICELAND! I always forget to mention Iceland!). I'm going to read and cook and drink and exercise and learn a new language and relax and meditate.... (OK, I probably won't actually meditate, but I'll think a lot about how good that would be for me, sort of meditating about meditating. That counts, right?)

 

Then I got to work, and Work took over. Sick sick sick dogs and cats in the hospital this morning. In particular, a tragic case of a strapping young Labrador who suffered heat stroke nearly to the point of death, and there she has hovered for days. All of our crystal balls broken, none of us didn't beat ourselves bloody struggling to keep her out of the clutches of the Reaper, who sat quietly outside her cage, reading a magazine, biding his time.

We watched her struggle and fight, as well. Never did she not wag her tail.

We lost, and the Reaper took his prize and went on his way while we all wept in his wake.

... Then the Reaper revisited twice more today. -- No, I thought, I won't miss this at all.

Of course, there's always comic relief, like the woman who insisted on being seen for her "emergency" (I had a no-show appointment, so why not?) then refused to give me any information about her pet's symptoms, condition, history, she just sat and glared at me. The Brits have that one down: Nutter.

And then people started saying the nicest things to me. Clients. Staff. Other docs. I know this is more than a little self-serving and pathetic, and I do feel a little like Sally Field:

("You really like me!!")

It seems everyone wanted a promise I would be coming back and not run away forever. Face it, it's good to be wanted. Maybe everyone should go on sabbatical once in a while just so we all have a good excuse to say nice things to each other without sounding sappy.

Next thing you know, it's quittin' time: 6:30pm. Here comes the night doctor, so I can go home.

And it hits me, all at once. I'm going home now... until October. Before I come back, I will have gone to the state fair, Labor Day will have come and gone, the leaves will have fallen off the trees, it will be nearly Halloween, it may have snowed!

And I'm surprised to find myself a little dizzy, even a little nauseous. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find myself staring a sign:

I can't believe it. I didn't know. I really didn't know until just this minute. I'm gonna miss being at work! -- When did that fucking happen?? For months (years?) now, I've been struggling with the "Am I happy?" question, and it turns out the answer, at least on some level, appears to be Yes.

I felt strangely nostalgic and sad as I watched the flow of the clinic go on around me: In one corner, the techs are wrangling a very large and tweaking Shepherd, while the phones ring off the hook, and prescriptions are filled. Emergencies are triaged, doctors and techs shout orders (and the occasional bawdy joke) across the room at one another. All with love, all in good fun (... I think...) There's even a new tech who just started, and she seems so great that, on her first day, I'm already sad I won't be working with her again until October.

There's a sense of rhythm and understanding and compassion and frustration and excitement and humor and ... (nope, I'm not gonna say, cuz that's not who I am) ... that make up our dysfunctional little family.

Somewhat lost, I gaze around at the hubbub and do the only thing I can do: I walk out the door, get in my car and drive home.

And at my home, I am greeted by these wet and stinky beasts:

And then I forget that I was sad, but I remember that I was happy. And so I am already on my quest to rediscover myself.

Sabbatical

Sab·bat·i·cal

  [suh-bat-i-kuhl]

noun

4.

( lowercase ) sabbatical year.

5.

( lowercase ) any extended period of leave from one's customary work, especially for rest, to acquire new skills or training, etc.

-----------------------------------------------

In case this blog ever expands beyond my circle of cherished friends: I have a confession to make. I am a veterinarian. 

There. I've said it. This secret I've learned to keep under the cover of darkness whilst in public places (especially on airplanes, oh yes).... Well, this column will make a lot more sense if you know that.

For one thing, being a veterinarian is a tough job. It's not quite the same level of challenge as those guys who disarm bombs in Afghanistan, but more than once I've found myself poised over a surgery patient, in a similar situation to Jeremy Renner in "The Hurt Locker":

In any case, it's hardly the walk in the park I actually worried it might be. (I say worried because I dreaded a boring career. Veterinary medicine has been many things thus far, but "boring" has never been one of them.) This poster is actually not too far afield:

What the poster fails to address, and what I actually find most exhausting about the job, is people. I talk a lot on my job. A lot. In exam rooms, on the phone, at the front counter. And that's just the clients. I also talk a lot to the staff. I discuss cases, treatment orders, surgical directives, handle phone messages, prescription refill requests. 

And a lot of those conversations are emotionally charged. I am not uncommonly discussing a pet's continued illness or even impending death. It's a valuable and important responsibility, and one I don't take lightly. But it wears on me, sometimes, to walk out of one exam room where I'm comforting a family who's just euthanized their 20-year-old cat, right into the next room where I'm expected to (and would honestly like to) enjoy the excitement of a family with a new puppy. Sometimes, this is me at the end of my workday:

And so, here I am, sixteen years into my veterinary career, and I feel a little bit burned out:

So, one day at work earlier this year, when our clinic office manager was lamenting that a veterinary surgery specialist wanted to come up and work at our clinic but we didn't have the hours to offer her full-time work, it was as if a spirit inhabited my body, and I was surprised to hear myself say, "Maybe she could have my hours?"

"Are you serious?" he asked.

It was almost an out-of-body experience. Part of my brain was yelling, "Hey, wait a minute, shouldn't we talk about this?" Still, somewhat befuddled, I replied, "I think so, maybe, yes." I half-expected to turn around and see Hermione Granger pointing her wand at me, casting a Confundus charm. But another part of me was thinking, No, this is good.

And before I could really think too much about the implications (financial impact, status impact [would I perceived as weak if I took a little time off?], marriage impact [how would that work if only one of us was working?], etc.), I was approved for a leave of absence. With my long academic history, it quickly became, to me, a "sabbatical." You can call it a leave of absence if you'd rather; I suppose "sabbatical" is somewhat pretentious, but you know what they say, "You can take the girl out of the liberal arts college, but..."

So for ten glorious weeks, I will not be working. Admittedly, some of that time was already planned out, the first week as jury duty, the last four as a trip overseas. But in between, well, that is what I am most eagerly anticipating.

As I shoveled my lunch into my mouth at work yesterday, running around the clinic giving treatment orders and answering phone questions the whole time, never sitting down once, I thought, "Well, I won't miss this." Actually sitting down and eating my lunch... What a concept. 

I will also not miss these things:

My thermos. Mandatory green tea infusion every morning. Sometimes the only thing I drink for 12 hours.

My Danskos. Great support but I roll my ankle off the heel at least once a week. Black color doesn't show blood (or "other") stains.

Breakfast Cookies. My "breakfast" every day at work because: 1) I can eat it with my fingers, and 2) I can eat it over the course of several hours without it spoiling.

Of course, there are things I will miss. I mean, just look at this little guy, named "Rocky," of course:

And the unintentional humor in some people's choices of pets' names and their consequences:

Needless to say, a lot of people want to know what I'm going to do on my sabbatical. To be honest, I'm wondering that myself. I've ranged everywhere from a strict schedule of yoga every day + running + swimming + reading Shakespeare + learning Turkish (have I mentioned we're going to Turkey?) + hosting a dinner party once a week.... It's exhausting just reading that list!

Then I thought, "Well, I just shouldn't do anything." But that's not really me. 

As my father (and, before him, some guy named Confucius) used to say, "Moderation in all things." So I'll probably make a short list of achievable goals, then leave the rest of the time free. 

I am looking forward to more time with these things:

And doing this:

And hangin' out up here:

And spending time with this guy:

In the end, I think my ultimate goal is to find a way not to be annoyed by wrong-number phone calls. That's a bit metaphorical, but you catch my drift. These days, little annoyances can drive me batshit crazy. I mean, even in my own mind I take a step back from myself and think, "Oh, no, dearie -- that reaction is a little over the top." I haven't yet decided what that path to Zen looks like, but that's part of the fun, right? The journey?

(I thought about meditation, but I joined an online meditation program and I have completed exactly three 10-minute sessions in the past six weeks. AND I feel stressed and guilty about it. Not a promising start.)

So while I struggle with enviably uncomfortable feelings of disorientation and quandary of how best to spend (binge? or invest??) my sabbatical hours, I very eagerly anticipate switching out this calendar:

for these calendars:

or perhaps no calendars at all.

It turns out I've grown quite fond of writing, so maybe I'll even blog a little. If I have enough time, that is.