Ron’s ballet slippers.
Go ahead and try it, she said. It’ll be fun, she promised.
So I said OK. I told a member of the Kansas City Ballet staff I’d take one of their Introduction to Ballet classes. A class. Singular. As in: one and done.
Why do I let myself get talked into these things?
I’m no youngster. I’m no dancer. Most days I creak just standing up. What did I have to lose—besides my dignity?
Turns out, not much. I actually had a good time on that rainy summer’s eve.
Fun, of course, is a relative term.
Most of the people in the room were half my age. They probably took dance lessons as kids. I played baseball. They played ballerina.
Most of them were flexible. I bend like a rusty hinge.
Most of them were women. I was only one of two who wasn’t.
“We’ll start with work at the barre,” our instructor said. He was
the other one.
Perfect, I thought. I could use a cocktail. Imagine my disappointment when the barre turned out to be a wooden beam with no Jim Beam in sight.
We began with the same warm-up stretches I’ve seen real dancers do for years. Back when I worked for KC Ballet, I used to sneak into class at the Bolender Center just to watch the pros. The live music and fluid movement always relaxed me.
We had live music in our class, too. The pianist’s first piece was Pavane for a Dead Princess.
Seemed appropriate.
Then came floor work — a special treat, because nothing boosts confidence like watching yourself in a wall of mirrors. I retreated to the far corner as soon as humanly possible.
Next was a jump where you’re supposed to fling your feet toward each other while also moving them apart. Or something like that. I tried it. I really did.
“Now,” our instructor said, “we’re going to practice combinations across the room.”
That was a hoot. I didn’t remember half of what he said, and couldn’t figure out the half I did remember. Gamely, I skipped and hopped and did my best impression of a wounded rabbit crossing the studio. Same grace, similar amount of blood.
How do they do it? How do dancers make every darn everything look so darn simple? I asked myself that repeatedly as I stumbled forward. I think it was forward.
By the end, I was worn out. I’ve always valued professional dancers for their strength and beauty, but now I appreciate them on a whole new level. The 90 minutes I went through would’ve been a light warm-up
for them. It nearly did me in.
At least I got a free pair of dance slippers for my efforts. Someday, I might even wear them again.
With the mirrors covered. And my eyes closed.
–Ron Fredman
