I Love Ballet…
I love to watch ballet. The grace, the poise, the elegance of the dancers; it’s so mesmerizing. But anything that involves me moving, well… then you can count me out. Yes, because movement means being noticed; movement means all eyes on you; movement means every part of your physique being scrutinized, assessed and critiqued and I absolutely hate the thought of that. Make me the centre of attention and I freeze; I become conscious of every molecule in my body.
Are they too red? (My cheek molecules.) Are they in the right place? (My hair molecules.) Are they strong enough to hold in quite a large amount of liquid? (My bladder molecules.) It’s exhausting, I tell you. Simply exhausting.
And as for getting me up on the stage? Never. Me in a tutu with a spotlight trained on me? You must be joking. Looking all serene and floaty in front of hundreds of people? Not in a million years, my friend. Oh, and then on top of all that you expect me to move? I’m sorry, but it’s just not gonna happen. No, I’m serious; my molecules simply wouldn’t allow it; they’d go rigid. In fact, you could probably tuck me under your arm after the last act and carry me off horizontally ‘cos my body would be that stiff.
But like I just said, that’s not going to happen. So I can book tickets to see Swan lake or The Nutcracker or some other suitably seasonal performance safe in the knowledge that I will be in a seat… and not moving. But just in case they decide to haul someone up from the audience (yes, alright, it’s not Panto but you never know) I think I’ll book the back row. I’d feel a heck of a lot safer.