Wednesday, August 4, 2004
at the barre
i was seven, maybe eight years old, when my parents nudged me toward cultural enlightenment, allowing me to choose between piano lessons and ballet. a romantic soul even at that tender age, and harbouring a huge and hopeless crush on rudolf nureyev, i chose the latter.
for three years i did my absolute emotive best: as a dewdrop, a daisy, a dwarf. i pliéd and pirouetted my way faithfully through saturday mornings, enthusiastic but lamentably inadequate. i was not a natural talent.
i firmly believe that regrets are a waste of time, but i do wonder sometimes if i might have benefited more from the "chopsticks" and "für elise" route. probably not. i certainly can't carry a tune vocally.
as it is, looking back, what i recall most vividly about those weekends isn't the locale and the lessons, but the wait afterwards: gloriously alone and trusted in lattimer's drug store, perched on a rotating stool at the counter, socks slipping, sipping soda through a straw.
that memory alone is worth the choice i made.