It’s Saturday, the sun is shining and I’m making my way to my first ever ballet workout, workout gear pulled on and workout bag in hand… Wait, how did this even happen?!
I’ll tell you how! 2018 arrived and I wanted to do things I’d been thinking of for a while, or at least try. It helped that a dear friend had similar thoughts. Workout clothes, workout bag, work out buddy – that’s just how I do things now!
Wait, how did this happen? I’ll tell you how! Roomy corridor, pleasant receptionist, easy system and cheap monthly rates are all important points, as well as being able to try out as many courses as you like and (physically) can.
We sat outside the gym, waiting for the previous class to finish, in our workout gear and not worn anywhere else sneakers… and a few girls passed us dressed in seriously ballet-inspired clothes and slippers. Once in the gym, the instructor isn’t there yet, so I covertly sneak glances at what the other participants are doing instead of asking directly if it’s OK to drape my towel over the bar. The cues are easy to identify and the sneakers simply get taken off. My socks don’t slip on the wooden floor and I’m hoping I won’t tear my leggings during a stretch I can’t yet imagine. RRRRip! Please no, these are new.
The instructor arrives, the music starts and with quick relief I discover that we are all following our individual levels of fitness, with no prolonged scrutinizing or comments. The classical music playing is soothing and my mind easily wanders elsewhere during the warm-up. It is my belief that those of us with Russian roots might be predisposed to like ballet. Regardless of whether we’ve actually done it ourselves (as you do) or only seen performances, there is something about ballet that makes the Russian heart flutter and eyes mist up, while images of The Nutcracker or Swan Lake take over our minds. We are genetically and historically primed to respond to these movements and knowingly say, “Ah yes!” when ballet enters conversation with other people.
All of the above might be part of my slight romanticzing of the ballet workout, though I’m practical enough to be careful about the workout part. But I’m not proceeding badly or stiffly at all, and I’m enjoying the stretching parts of the session. However, as soon as we get to exercises involving lying on your back and lifting your legs in various positions, well, oh dear. But this is my very first ballet workout, after all.
We sit back up and stretch forward, trying to touch the tips of our straight legs. This is a predictable challenge. The last time I did this, I was six years old and I could do so with both hands at the same time. It was during a dance class, and my teacher was wonderful – perceptive, patient and competent. I remember her in an emerald-green blouse, grey trousers, with a tiny waist and beautifully applied bright make-up. Maybe these memories are part of the reason I was looking forward to today.
My leg bends before I can reach my toes, like that time my eye would shut before I could put in a contact lens. The voice in my head is alternating between repeating Oh, God and quietly swearing in my best imitation of what everyone else thinks a British accent is. I catch my friend’s eye and have to resist making a face, because we are actually concentrating and no one besides the instructor is saying anything. In fact, I do giggle when I catch another redhead’s eye, because she’s taking a tiny break, like me, but she doesn’t react back. Noted!
I’m still able to get up without a fuss as we get to the final exercises. I mess up the sequence of moves, but the music is lovely and I’m trying to remember whether it’s the opening of the Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker (that’s as Russian as I get today). The ballet workout seems to be over before I know it and I am already sure while carefully (just in case) walking out that I will want to come again.
The rest of the day passes and I feel fine, mastering stairs is not a problem, but let’s see what my muscles say tomorrow.