I’m watching Save the Last Dance and yes, I know it’s cheesy, but it was my life. For thirteen years, being in front of the stage was my life. The pointe shoes, the costumes, the makeup. It was a love affair I didn’t get when I was five, but I couldn’t live without when I was eighteen. I grew up in the world of The Dance Workshop, and I never was unfaithful to it. I stuck with it from my first dance and my first costume (“My Heart Belongs to Daddy” in a red sequin spaghetti-strap leotard with lace trim and a lace bow on the butt) to my last dance and my last costume (“Mein Herr” in spandex shorts and a midriff, velvet top). Actually, the last recital was dedicated to me. Me, with the best bourees and the worst case of timing and clumsiness you’ve ever seen. God, how I miss it.

I want to go back so badly, but right now I need my cash for other things, like rent, health insurance, money for college, and whatever else comes ahead. It’ll be a couple of years before I learn. I figure that if I go back, I want to learn hip-hop, since I never got to learn that. It’ll be good if I go live in Boston or New York.

Okay, back to crying about ballet…