Requiem for Birthday Dreams

Today is my birthday. I am 44 years old. I am 64 inches tall, and I weigh 186 pounds. I am average height for a woman, and I am very overweight. And I don’t care. I decided I would take a page out of Zelda Fitzgerald’s book and turn my life around starting today. The choice is between these two new things: becoming a ballerina or a ninja. I have outfits for both and have trained for neither.

Today I took the day off work from my retail job where I help small children stuff teddy bears with fluff and throw in a red plastic heart. Every now and then, I skip the heart without telling the children or their parents, and I chuckle to myself that when those bears die, they’re going straight to hell. They are damned without the hearts. The only person who has a tally of the damned bears is me. It’s on a par with the heady feeling I had when I snorted No-Doze in college. I’m Queen of the World!

Super-charged and pumped for my foray into the arts, I pulled on my leotard and leg warmers—pink, of course—and a terry cloth head band. By the time I made it to the dance studio where I had booked a one hour free lesson to evaluate the studio and have them evaluate my natural ability for la danse, my head was sweating profusely, like dripping into my eyes, and then I felt my mascara starting to run off my top lashes into my eyes, and it was a clusterfuck, not of epic proportions, but enough to annoy me and cause my pits to join in on the sweat frenzy. When I reached the dance studio, I detoured for the restroom, and I looked like Amy Winehouse on a bender, dressed as Jennifer Beals from Flashdance. The head band may have been causing the sweat, or it could have been a hot flash. Fucking perimenopause.

My instructor was a pixie of a woman. I think I was probably close to the equivalent of two of her. She instructed me on foot positions. I could only do the first two without nearly toppling over. I mean, Jesus H. Christ. I am top heavy. How am I supposed to turn my feet in these unnatural directions without falling? But, it’s my birthday, and I am nothing if not optimistic.

“When do I get to put on the toe shoes?” I asked her.

“Dah-link,” she said in a thick Slavic accent. “I don’t think you are cut out for the toe shoes. Maybe have you tried line dancink, you know with the cowboy boots?”

“Oh. Are you saying I’m not cut out to be a ballerina?”

“That is exactly what I’m sayink,” she answered.

“Hmm. What would I have to do to become a ballerina?” I asked.

“This is a very good question. The best ballerinas begin to train very youngk. You are not youngk.”

“What am I going to do with this outfit? I bought it for my training as a ballerina.”

“Save it for Halloween, dah-link,” she said. “Your makeup is running. You are very sweaty. Would you like a tissue?”

I left. I went home. I entered one star ratings on Yelp and Google with the following review: If you are middle-aged, very overweight, and have a dream of becoming a prima ballerina and you have no experience dancing; if you have no coordination whatsoever, but you have a dream…Do NOT visit this studio. The lithe young thing you could squash between your thighs is a dream killer. She is a piranha to your desire to be the next Anna Pavlova. Just stay home, and stick your head in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Ben and Jerry love your thighs.

Becoming a ninja was going to be a bit more challenging because I couldn’t find any ads for ninja training or ninja studios. I had watched Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon numerous times, and I was dying to fly through the air like the characters in the movie. Defying gravity was probably going to be so much more difficult than the ballet foot positions, but, again…OPTIMISM!

The first karate place I called hung up on me when I asked about becoming a ninja. So did the second and third places. I was running out of karate places. The thing to do was just to show up and let the chips fall where they may.

My ninja outfit wasn’t actually meant to be a ninja outfit. My husband had gone as Zorro for Halloween a couple years before, and I figured if I ditched the hat and put on a blindfold, I’d be poised and primed for ninja lessons. I decided against wearing the blindfold to the karate place, though, in case they thought I was a real ninja or thief. If they thought I was a real ninja, they could karate the shit out of me, and if they thought I was a thief, I would look so stupid going to the police station.

The instructor at the karate place was this Caucasian kid who used to work at the Dairy Queen by my house. In fact, he had been one of my son’s friends in high school.

“Hey, Cory, what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Hey, Mrs. Rottenbohm. I’m an instructor. Can I help you with something?” Cory asked. “Are you on your way to a funeral?”

“Well, here’s the thing, Cory. I need you to call me Caroline. We’re all adults here, and, well, yeah…Mrs. Rottenbohm sounds so old.”

“Sure. Fine. I can do that,” he said.

“So. I’m here to become a ninja. I want to train to be a ninja. I have seen all the episodes of Kung Fu, The Green Hornet, The Pink Panther movies, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon…all the things.” I dug into my handbag and pulled out a large velvet bag cinched with a drawstring. “Look,” I said, and withdrew throwing stars.

Cory visibly paled, and he stepped back from me.

“Wait, Cory. You haven’t seen the best part yet!” I withdrew a box and opened it up kind of like they did when they opened the Ark of the Covenant in the first Indiana Jones movie. Cory leaned forward to see what was in the box. “Nunchucks!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, Jesus. God. Mrs. Rot-Caroline,” Cory said. I thought he was in awe, but he was actively moving farther away from me.

“Wait. Cory. Is this not something you train people to do here in your studio?”

“Uh, no!” he said very loudly. It was maybe what I would call a yell. “I don’t think I, we, anyone can help you with becoming a ninja. It’s just not what you’re going to find in any strip mall karate place or dojo, like, anywhere.”

“Really?” I whined. “What am I supposed to do with these throwing stars and nunchucks? I even have a katana in the car.

“Caroline. What THE fuck? Does your son know you have all this stuff? Does your husband know? Like, you have some dangerous shit, and…listen…do you want to sign up for karate lessons? We have adults who take karate.”

“Do I get to dress like a ninja?” I asked.

“Um, no. You wear white, like I’m wearing,” he held his hands out to show me his ridiculous pajamas.

“No way. Nuh-uh. That’s nowhere near as cool as my ninja outfit.” I shrugged. “Cory, you’re a dream assassin.”

I left. I went home. I left one star ratings on Yelp and Google, but I couldn’t leave a review because Cory would know it was me, and I didn’t want there to be any negative consequence for my son, in case he and Cory were still doing social activities when he was home from school. I took off the Zorro outfit. My husband’s pants were cutting off the circulation in my abdomen. I put on sweats and the leg warmers and descended the stairs when I heard the garage door going up. My sweet husband entered our house with a balloon that said, “Happy 45th birthday!” Oh, insult and injury! But on the bright side, he did bring some Cherry Garcia.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“I’m too old to become a ballerina, and I’m too deadly to become a ninja. I need some new dreams.”