Your own worst critic

I'm back to four dance classes a week, split between two studios. Reduced-capacity, shortened classes, loads of cleaning in between, masks required, etc., so it's all very safe. It's nice to have the space to move again and not worry about banging into the kitchen table or tripping over the edge of the rug or breaking an arm because I've slipped out of an over-enthusiastic pirouette and gone arse-over-tea-kettle straight down onto the laminate.

Now I just fall over on a sprung floor instead.

Look, the falling over was always going to happen. It's just nicer to do it somewhere with less chance of simultaneously cracking your skull open on a chair.

There are, of course, drawbacks to being back in person. One is the mirrors. Oh, lord, the mirrors. They're everywhere. They're a fantastic tool, don't get me wrong, but...they're mirrors. They show you everything that's wrong with what you're doing. Everything that's wrong with you. They're relentless. Drawback number two is, of course, other people. Socializing? Nice. Other people watching you huff and puff your way through your petite allegro? Not so much. And in this instance, me being me, I'm always one of the people right at the front because I know what I'm doing, which means that I've got however many people behind me using me as an assist, which is fine, but also a little nerve-wracking. If I go wrong, they go wrong, and I've let them down. Of course, they really ought to be working their brains a little harder and challenging themselves to retain the combinations so that they don't have to rely on we front-line sacrificial lambs, but the adult division doesn't work like that.

Between the mirrors and the fact that I'm constantly being copy-catted, I spend a whole lot of time over-analyzing my technique, my artistry, and--of course, because dance wouldn't be dance without this particular method of self-flagellation--my body. It is not what it was when I was seventeen. There are plenty of very good explanations for this. None of them are brawny enough to push the images of my ballet heyday out of my mind's eye. I know what I'm capable of. The fact that I am now thirty-::COUGH::, X years out of practice, XX pounds heavier, and infinitely creakier are, of course, perfectly normal reasons for me to be doing exactly as well as I am, which is far better than most, but that obnoxious teenager at the back of my head likes to let me know that she thinks otherwise. Loudly.

Dancing is one of the unhealthiest forms of exercise in the brain department. This is a universal truth. It also will never stop me from doing it.

Any old way, the other evening after a class, I was sorting myself out to go home when a conversation started between a couple of my classmates.

"What did she call it? That beat thing in the jump? Antra-- Antra--"

"Entrechat quatre," I said.

"Yeah, that! That was cool. Say it again?"

"Entrechat quatre. Quatre, four. It counts the number of beats you're doing. Each leg counts as one, so even though you go back-front and you'd think it would be two, it's four."

"That's kind of weird."

"It is. You can do them in other numbers as well. Trois is three, where you beat in front and land coupe derriere. Or six, which..."

I went on with my mini-lecture, and then pulled out my Gail Grant and told them it would be the best seven dollars they ever spent. They took reference photos. A few went on their way after that, but one stayed behind.

"How long have you been dancing?"

"In my youth? A long time," I replied.

"You're just so beautiful when you dance, the way you move. I love watching you."

Not gonna lie, kids. It was good for my ego.