Ballet Workout Number 10

Drama in the classroom! But I’m ready for it, because, I am, after all, a prima ballerina on the cusp of fame.

Five minutes before class is due to start, our trainer still hasn’t arrived, which isn’t unusual. Instead of getting to stretch in peace or just contemplate whether we are brave enough to stand right in front (that doesn’t apply to me, my place is always in the front ever since I got called there from what I thought was a good spot at the back, but that’s what you get when you are reeking of experience and five foot ten), we were accosted by the trainer packing up after the previous course. Except she stopped packing up when she saw us and suggested we do some warm-ups from her children’s fitness class.

I hopped up and down out of politeness, but stopped when I noticed my classmates were all standing still and stony-faced. I get it, loyalty. We were further interrogated about what type of workout we were about to do and the woman was clearly floored when we answered ballet.

Our own trainer arrived shortly and I had barely registered her cool, brightly patterned wedge sneakers, when she was accused by the other lady of wearing “street shoes”. It took another five minutes for the accuser to exit, and I thought once again that shoes have the power to do all sorts of things to women. And considering we were in a ballet workout, this wasn’t even off-topic.

But I also saw our trainer in a new light – a graceful woman who always comes to our class with a determined smile and in cheerful, bright clothes. Some people can’t let go of that even in passing.

Within minutes I was once again joyfully sweating as I extended my legs in as precise tendus as I could muster, keeping my hands on my hips and smiling at the girl in the mirror. Arms rose, heads were held high, plies went as deep as we could go and the “dog” at the end was very varied indeed, though I think I once again took the cake in terms of looking like I knew what I was doing. Not.

I’m discovering that it’s easier to squat down to retrieve something and THEN get back up again, something I had become a bit ungainly at before I started this workout. I’ve missed the last two classes, but here’s hoping I have the right attitude (see what I did there) and that my body will remember. Stay tuned…

 

 

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Ballet Workout Number 9

Niagara Falls has nothing on me, that’s how much I’m sweating.

Our trainer walks in, catches my eye and gives me a smile. I’m recognized and I instantly know that I can’t move to the back of the room. My place is here, front and center. Well, her place is front and center, mine is slightly to the side. I have accepted the prima ballerina inside me waiting to burst forth and will continue working out. With great workouts comes great sweating.

I missed the previous class, but it’s gratifying and energizing to see that my body seems to remember something. This time I actually manage to sincerely smile at my reflection in the mirror before the sweat obscures my vision. It’s nice to see what I hope really is a straight back and how we all do exercises in sync, as if we’re participating in a performance we hadn’t discussed with each other.

There is slightly less choreography this time and the larger parts of what we did previously have been broken down in to smaller ones. We’re concentrating in greater detail on steps, toes, fingers, and really making an effort, hence the sweating. I’m sorry, I’m writing too much about sweating in this post, it’s making me perspire.

Occasionally our trainer shouts, “Is that ballet? That’s not ballet!” Well, the question we might want to ask ourselves, really, or that we don’t yet trust ourselves to ask her is, what is ballet?

I don’t get as much attention as last time, except for my tendus. “I’m doing this,” our instructor says, sweeping her foot in a graceful arc behind her. “And that’s not what you’re doing.” But of course I remember the instruction about aligning my outstretched foot with the tip of my nose when I bring it back. Got it, got it.

This time I also manage to sometimes pick up my arms and do movements along with moving my feet, switching correctly, so score!

We finish with our hands and feet on the floor, our bodies bent upwards like triangles. “Nothing is supposed to be bending,” the trainer calls out, and I know this is leveled at me. I can’t see what’s bent, because I’m looking down, but I venture a sideways glance at the mirror and am rewarded by a total vision. Red face, sweat dripping down the sides, glasses slipping down my nose, hair all over the place, legs bent at the knees. “Go further forward with your hands,” my trainer says. I do. “Futher!” I do. But only so far. “This is the dog, from yoga, you know?” I didn’t know, I’m woefully misinformed where yoga is concerned, but then, I’ve only just accepted my inner ballerina.