Friday, July 9, 2010


Everyone must have a fantasy career. An astronaut. A ballplayer. A rockstar. For me...a dancer. Now, I might as well have said cellist, because it was and certainly is as likely that I could become a cellist, having never had a cello between my knees, as it is that I could have danced. I took classes when I was young, and actually started studying ballet again the year I turned thirty. But come on. Dance is a gift, an art and an athletic skill for which my mum was blessed - not me.

So why dance? I'm attracted to the grace, the discipline and the lifestyle of a dancer.  Even if she's in street clothes, I can spot her a million miles away: her form, her turnout, her feet. And sometimes I fantasize that I'm seventeen, sitting in the subway car, coffee in hand, toe shoes in my bag- ready to exit at 66th and attend class at Julliard or ABT.

No, clearly I'll never be a dancer.

But dancing has given me tremendous joy the last few months. And I doubt even a prima ballerina has found the same degree of serenity I discover each time I move to the music with a certain baby boy in my arms.

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