2022

I pass Lincoln Center with the click-clack of my boots. I look toward the illustrious theater and breathe it in, smiling to myself. I feel heads turn. It seems as though an old lady with poise is one worth staring at, or perhaps it is my red lipstick that manages to turn heads. Crazy, though they call me, I can only wear high-heeled shoes. I am tall enough, and I walk with an elongated neck due to years of practice but the shoes, however, remind me of my youth as a ballerina. The paradox of maintaining an ethereal disposition of a woman turned untouchable mixed with the ever-so-human onslaught of emotions before a performance. 

The art of ballet, a profession of passion that I had dedicated my life to, and continue to carry with me into my old age. 

It brings me back to my first performance as a principal dancer at The American Ballet Theater, when I was not a girl, and not yet a woman. I was so young and impressionable, and yet all I wanted was to make an impression.

1964

I chugged my espresso, and the nerves and caffeine swirled in my intestines. I couldn’t eat much; I wasn’t hungry, but I ate anyway. Now, I regret it. I feel bloated and empty at the same time. I don’t want food, but I want something. My mouth is watering, but I’m not thirsty. I tell myself to breathe. It will be over soon. I tell myself, “In just a few short hours, you will be in bed dreaming of the magic that occurred on stage,” but another voice in my head speaks louder, as I am keenly aware that those short hours will have an incredible impact on my career, and I feel the need to prove to myself that all those hours spent prior were not in vain. 

  I arrived at the theater at 6:48 PM. Every minute counts. As soon as I can claim a spot in the dressing room, I organize my bags to perfection. Nothing can be out of order. My mother’s words play like a broken record; “Cluttered space, cluttered mind.” Every zipper must be closed neatly and met at one end or the other, shut all the way. My bags were packed neatly against the wall. My satin pointe shoes propped up against the mirror, glued with shellac so that they may withstand the 32 fouettes I am about to perform. Darned so neatly around the tip of the shoe that one might mistake my handwork for that of a sewing machine.

The makeup process is both therapeutic and stressful. Every detail in preparation must be executed impeccably so that the show will match. My hand trembles as I get to my eyeliner. I have always loathed this part. After much drawing and redrawing, my eyes grow red from my makeup wipe and match the red of my lips. I tell myself to breathe. After what feels like years, I stand back and examine my face. The eyeliner remains uneven.

A stagehand comes through the doors, “30 minutes till the top of show!”

30 minutes until the top of the show.

All of a sudden, the temperature in the room seems to rise by ten degrees. I can feel the pink from my blush spread into a deep red. My whole face resembles a chameleon against Santa’s coat. I tell myself to breathe.

  I run to the bathroom and then go twice more before putting on my tutu. I suck in all the air so that I may shrink my waist as my friend latches the hooks. I feel like a child getting buckled into a roller coaster car. 

“You look simply sublime, dear!” she smiles. She asks me if I am nervous. I am not afraid, but I am antsy. I don't think nervous is the right word. Butterflies could not suffice to describe the sensation in my stomach. It was more intense than that. The feeling better resembles a single hummingbird, buzzing around, filled with energy yet restricted by the walls of a cage, that cage being the bodice of my tutu. “No, I am just excited,” I tell her, only partly lying. 

The minutes before entering the stage feels like a blur. It’s 7:52 now. The stench of hairspray clogs my nostrils and my faux eyelashes are weighing down my eyelids. I warm up once more. A stretch of the hamstring, a few abdominal exercises. My partner and I try a few things out. All is fine but anything can happen under those lights. The stage is so unpredictable, it’s terrifying but exhilarating. I jump around and swing my arms like a crazy lady. I check to see if my ribbons are tied. I spray more hairspray on my head. I tell myself to breathe. Then, I check to see if my ribbons are tied and spray more hairspray on my head.  

The clock in the wings reads 8:02. Showtime is never on time. Finally, the curtain begins to rise. I can hear the music that leads to my entrance. I know this music so well that it pumps through my veins. The melody matches the pulse of my heart. I jump up and down with the beat. The adrenaline has arrived; I can feel it. My partner comes out from behind me and whispers, “Just breathe.” 

2022

I breathe again and snap myself out of my trance. A young girl, no more than 20 years of age, is running in circles around the back of the stage. She sees me staring with panic on her face. She runs up to me, and I can tell by the outward rotation of her step that she is a ballerina herself. “Excuse me, Miss?” She asks exasperated, “Do you know where I can find the artist's entrance? I have an audition this morning, and I am running late.” Her breath is heavy. I recognized her nerves. 

I smiled at her with my red lips and pointed her to the door I walked through every morning for twenty years. “Just breathe, darling everything will be alright." I could see her eyes soften in gratitude as she gave me a short nod; I merely blinked before she was gone again. 

 I smiled to myself. Click-clack, click-clack, I walked past the theater once more.