Ballet Revisited

When I was three Gigi put me in ballet. I loved it. It was fun and interesting because my teacher had a Spanish accent and I had a lot of trouble understanding her. Gigi would ask me after class how I liked it and how the class had gone for the day. I would tell her, “It was fun, but Miss Blanca likes to clean a lot. She’s always talking about Lysol.” Gigi was very confused, until she heard Miss Blanca say ‘Let’s all’—which (in my defense) did sound a lot like ‘Lysol’.

I loved the leotards and tights and ballet slippers and tutus. I loved the bar exercises and all of the moves and music. I loved it all—at least that’s how I remember it.

I do remember that there were parts that were VERY challenging for me. Skipping almost put me over the edge. I could do one knee up, but not the other one. Gigi had to walk me to class and home for a couple of weeks to help me learn how to skip—with both legs.

And then there’s the whole left-right thing. I have always had trouble remembering my left from my right. It’s very tricky when it comes to a lot of things like following directions, driving, dancing—and when I was three, it was very tricky for ballet. It made it even more complicated for the recital. I was really worried about messing up because of this problem. And so Gigi came to the rescue. She made me a wrist band, out of a ribbon, Velcro, and a flower, to put on my right wrist so I could remember. It’s a good thing, too, because when the recital rolled around my class of 12 or so dwindled down to 2 and the other girl refused to go on stage. My teacher stood behind the curtain and did our “I’m a Little Tea Pot” routine with me. If I hadn’t had that wrist band, I couldn’t have remembered which was my handle and which was my spout.

That was the end of my ballet career. Other things came up, there wasn’t time or money or whatever and I just never took classes again. And I guess that’s why it’s so much fun to watch Joy in her class. She was DYING to take ballet for the longest time and we finally got her into a class in January. We got her the required attire, we prepped her (mentally) as best we could, and took her to class. And she was very serious and dedicated for the first class and a half. And midway through the second class she decided that there was more to ballet than just being a serious student.

Parents are not allowed in the room, but we can watch through the window. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can see her talking—almost the entire class. And I see the teacher saying, “OK, now let’s…” and then Joy starts talking again. I think she talks more than the teacher. And then they start their warm ups and exercises. Joy must think that flinging herself onto the floor or making wacky faces is a way to show the teacher (and probably me) how passionate she is about ballet. She spends more time falling on the floor than she does doing plies. (And, mind you, I only get to watch the class in 20 second intervals because I am chasing Marlo around the studio.) But in those 20 second snippets, I see Joy doing belly flops on the floor, eating her snack, spilling her drink, whipping her hair around, and hanging on the bar “I Love Lucy” style.

There are a few things that remind me of my former dancing days. For one, she gets confused with her right and her left. Miss Kris has to get her to do her individual exercises (usually) more than once because she’s on the wrong foot. That doesn’t bother her in the least—just ask her, she’ll talk you through the whole thing, and give you the play by play, then recap it about 20 times just in case you missed something. Another thing that brings back some memories is that there are certain things she has trouble doing—not skipping, because they don’t skip in her class, but other things cause her problems. And I smile because I know eventually she’ll get it.

Sometimes when she’s acting like a goof I am thankful that I have to run around after Marlo because I can pretend that I don’t see what she’s doing. Other times I try to get her attention to get her to stop messing around and pay attention to the teacher, but she catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye, and then she purposely ignores me. There really are no words—what can I say? She’s 4 and she loves life and she loves to dance. And I love her.

What else is there to say?


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

{this moment}

Joining Amanda

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember...

Polished Off

The problems of aging are many and one is the problem of perception. Things are not always viewed with flexibility and adaptation, but are structured by the past.

I usually just wear clear fingernail polish. This is one step above the example set by my mother who never wore polish. Last week, I took off my old polish and then neglected to replace it. On the way to Busybody’s I looked down and observed my hands and thought, “Oh, well. No one will notice.” We had been there about twenty minutes when Joy came over and whispered, “Gigi, if we get through in time this afternoon, I will polish your nails for you.” Good. A four year old noticed. Either she has much more time in her schedule, is more perceptive OR every adult I have encountered has noticed but been too polite to comment.

When my Mom was just entering the shadows of Alzheimer’s, but still able to walk around and attempt some limited tasks, she needed a full-time caregiver but resisted much of the help offered her. Through the week, I would pop in and out to check on her (and the caregiver) and deliver stuff, but Sundays were our days together. I would do many of the things that she refused to have the caregiver perform. Her nails seemed to always need care. I couldn’t stand that little –sometimes-bigger—line of grime that she wouldn’t submit to letting the caregiver remove. On Sunday afternoons, we would sit with a pan of warm, sudsy water on one our laps and chitchat until her nails were Mom clean again. Even from me, however, she balked at any attempt at manicuring, and it was a real challenge to keep her looking cared for.

One Sunday, I thought it would be fun, because the quest of life is for the good, the true, the beautiful and the fun, to take Mom out for a real manicure. She was always mistrustful of leaving the house because I might be tricking her into doing something she had specifically instructed me not to do, but then again, we might be going out for ice cream or pie or boxed candy (from a candy store) and so she went with me, but made it as difficult as possible. At least, I thought it was as difficult as possible until we reached the nail salon, and then I encountered what as difficult as possible really was.

She didn’t want to extend her hands to the manicurist but would turn towards me and grab my dress with both hands and, being far too ladylike to raise her voice, would entreat me with the most pathetic of looks to pleeeaaassseee, get her out of there. The manicurist had to firmly hold one hand while I held the other while she took off a snippet of nail. Mom then forgot being a lady and yelled, “ouch, ouch, ouch.” “Did you feel that?” “Well, no, but I thought I was going to”, she explained to me—the manicurist was either invisible to her or so far beneath her contempt that she would not talk to her. “Well, just wait until you do feel it, please don’t yell about “going to’”, I requested. My request went unheeded. As the snippets came off the second hand (it had to be snippets because Mom was jerking her hands so spasmodically, that the poor girl was afraid to do more) I said, “ Just dry her hands and slap on one coat of polish, we’re leaving” with a glare at the misbehaving mother. As I outrageously tipped the frazzled manicurist, Mom found her inside stage whisper and instructed me, “Don’t give her money for trying to hurt me.” The door had barely shut behind us when she burst out crying with huge crocodile tears running down her cheeks. I was truly fearful that someone would make a 9-1-1 call for elderly abuse while I was trying to get her back into the car.

I clicked her seatbelt with finality thinking I might leave her in for there for the rest of my Sunday visit, tried to cool off as I went around the car and got into my seat and turned to her and said, “What was that all about?” She was too absorbed with her sobbing to tell me. Her little, stooped shoulders heaved with the utter sorrow of her plight and I was helpless to be with her in it or to remove her from the immediacy of the situation. I had cooled down: There was ice around my heart and my hands were ice. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN!

Finally, she said, “I don’t want to die this soon.” I tried to keep my voice normal, “Why do you think you are going to die soon?” She said, “Well, aren’t you trying to make my hands look nice for when they’re folded?” Ohhhhhhhh, I exhaled that as an eight-syllable word. All her opposition to basic hygiene had really been, to her, her fight for life.

Last week, we didn’t finish playing restaurant, or school or talent show in time for Joy to polish my fingernails, but tomorrow when I get there, we are going to spend a blissful few minutes letting her tend to me while I can still refrain from grimacing, grabbing and downright yelling. I may, however, sneak into the bathroom and remove the polish that goes onto other areas than my nails. Grandmas, you know what I’m talkin’ about!


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.