The Big Dance.

You'd have thought it would be easier this time around. On the contrary! The butterflies are back with renewed vengeance. They have signaled each other, alert to the fact that the residence permit in your gut has been reactivated. You wonder what the big deal is. It's just an hour under the lights, after all. The reddened stumps that were once your digits belie this notion. Chewed to near extinction, they are an eyesore, proof of severely frayed nerves. Erin shakes her head and tapes them together. You shrug helplessly and look for other pressure release valves. Close friends and family are mostly unsympathetic, amused even. It’s something they've witnessed before. Alternately you are humored or ignored based on their passing whims.

There's been the endless feverish rehearsing, the fussing over a dozen inconsequential things. Last year the team nearly went crazy with your micromanaging. You must have asked the same question a zillion times. It was all taken in good faith, generally chalked out to pre-performance jitters. This year they've anticipated your demons and come up with a suitable prescription. A mandatory visit to the spa has been recommended. Obediently following orders, you observe as the charming attendant works your tense, tight muscles. She's good enough. However, there are deep knots that defy even the most skilled masseuse. Expressing appreciation for her efforts, you take your leave. The demons however, are still there.

All at once, a brainwave hits. But of course, cycling! A burst of fresh country air would surely do a world of good. The ancient bicycle is retrieved from storage, the crash helmet is firmly fixed in place and off you go, humming under your breath. Alas, those careful calculations are flawed. The whispers of self-doubt are magnified in the stillness, a thousand 'What ifs' emerging from nowhere. A feeling of dread settles in the pit of your stomach. Various scenarios play out in the theater of your mind. Without exception they end up in some form of humiliation or disaster. There's this insane thought, a sudden mad impulse to keep on cycling and never return. But that isn't really an option, is it? Dance is in your blood. Furthermore, too much has been invested.

Speaking of investments, the question often asked is, ‘has it been worth it?'. You mull over countless deprivations, long practice hours at the expense of your social life, the fad dieting. No concrete answer presents itself. As D-day draws near, your desperation increases. You’ve taken time off to rest your feet. Nintendo and other computer games dominate until the screen becomes a blur. With no other alternatives, you grow resigned to simple creature comforts. The ice-cream cooler conveniently stationed down the hall plays a major role here. Indulgently you make several trips when no one's looking.

Wednesday morning arrives, just 48 hours to go. By now you're accustomed to feeling funny but this is different. You rush to the mirror. Is that a tell-tale zit showing up your face? Plus, you look rather pudgy. The day is doomed to get worse with the passing of time. At the final fitting session, the results of covert binge-eating are firmly established. Your intricately designed costume bulges in all the wrong places. Now, major panic buttons are going off everywhere. Drastic measures have to be taken. In a frenzy, you change into your sweatpants. Jogging up and down the staircase is no joke but it's the only remedy. Eventually with much sweat, tears and blood, you're 5 pounds down. You can squeeze into the costume, but just barely. How on earth are you going to execute those fancy dance moves before an audience?

Jilly comes by, ostensibly to help with last-minute preparations. Of all your cousins, she's the one you secretly detest. Her endless chatter is always extremely aggravating. There's also some hidden rivalry dating back to when your mother and her father were kids. By unspoken mutual agreement, no one in the family makes reference to this. You paste on a fake megawatt smile and assure her that everything is under control, the erstwhile insecurities magically tucked away. Painful endurance is really a matter of sheer necessity as any gloating on her part would trip you over the edge.

Evil only seems to multiply. A favorite well-meaning instructor rushes in beaming. He's got exciting news. There's word that a renowned critic is going to be in attendance. Management is agog with delight. Such an honor, what excellent opportunities abound! Name-recognition occurs instantly and inwardly you shudder. This so-called big-shot skewered a compatriot from a rival studio only six months prior with ferocious passion. You ease him out the door, understanding for the umpteenth time what it feels like to be fragile glass.

Your tortured mind goes into overdrive wondering if you’re up to the task. A single misstep and your career is over. Bye-bye, big dreams, bye great hopes! Mercifully, the exertion of the past few days takes its toll and you collapse, crashing on the soft foam mattress. Finally, in la-la land, some calming voice soothes, whispering, 'You've conquered previous, you'd conquer this as well'.  Fast- forward a few hours and you’re alone in the darkness, awake, drinking herbal tea and reassured somewhat.

The big day comes with great fanfare. Tickets have long since sold out. The chauffeur drives past scores of people milling about, waiting for the doors to open. You breathe in deeply and decide to give your all. 'You might as well do this', you tell yourself. The lighting dims, an expectant hush settles over the theater. You will yourself onto the stage and then brilliance. Absolute brilliance! The curtains fall to thunderous applause. Everyone's raving about a flawless performance. There are glossy snapshots in the local paper, fantastic reviews from the dreaded critic. The family basks in reflected glory, the studio is catapulted into limelight. You're floating on air for days on end, the horror of the past few weeks now a distant memory. All is well with the world. 

At least, until the next big dance.