Have you ever dreamed of something you had rather not admitted? As if acknowledging that it rested in your heart would cause instant failure, because there was no way you could ever accomplish such a feat?
I have. And it scares me to death. I am staring down the throat of the beast called Potential Failure, and still I find myself twirling gleefully upon its sharp right incisor. I do mean twirling in the literal sense, and there are little pink ballet slippers upon my feet. It is the art of dance I am after. Now, being a mostly grown woman of 24 years old who has not danced in nearly 8 years, it may look more like a strained flamingo in a strong wind, but that’s the deep, daunting blackness beneath me speaking.
Children are always signed up for various endeavors when in their parents care: soccer, riding lessons, t-ball, ballet. Parents hope and pray that these social activities instill some sort of character structure and strength with a bit of accountability in their childs’ lives. Ballet class was that for me. Not to mention, all of the other moms’ little girls were in the class, so there was a bit of social acceptance pressure on my mother as well. While I never hated dancing, it was the having to go to dance class that I found grueling and tiresome. I just wanted to do what I wanted to do. Guess that was part of the accountability thing I had to learn. Still, I went. I learned as much as my stubborn self would allow, and I was always told that I had a gift for it. Everyone likes to hear that, right? Looking back, I wish I had seized that opportunity a little more and used those apparent talents to their most potential. Maybe I wouldn’t be in threat of making such a fool of myself now, and my desires would be a little less daunting.
Oops, there’s that pit I’m seeing again. I was petite once… and young and flexible. Well, I’m still petite, but I don’t have the figure of a 12 year old girl anymore. The flexibility has decreased in proportion to the love handle expansion. Yet, I find myself desiring to dance again and have signed up for classes. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just me, my living room and a personal DVD that could give me insightful instruction without having to actually watch me, but an actual class? I’m seriously considering joining a class of younger, better instructed students to begin my dream of learning ballet once more? It seems as though I’m lifting into that pirouette before I spot.
But you know, I’ll never know until I try, and I can’t try without a risk of failure. I think I’ll be saving the Facebook announcement until I’ve successfully survived my first class. Who knows, maybe that monster’s throat will turn out to merely be an audience filled auditorium and the tooth my pedestal of a stage.