Improve Your Pirouettes With a Confrontational Letter!

Photo: Will Brenner via Flickr

Dear Pirouettes-

Let's get right to the pointe.  

What the sh*#-ball-change is going on?

We used to be sympatico, you and I.  A team.  In jazz class, we were unstoppable fierceness --  three, even four times a pop! In attitude, second and arabesque, we sailed around sublimely, like angels.  And no one could whip around those pencils like we could, baby.  

It was sheer magic.

The crazy thing is, that was when I didn't work so hard to understand you.  Back then I knew a hell of a lot less about all your subtleties, your intricacies, and your deep dark secrets.  To be honest, I'm not sure I gave a pas de crap.  I might have taken you for granted, but I knew you were there for me.

Then you had to go get all nasty and spiteful, like some dancer who finally snaps after she realizes the choreographer she's been dying to work with would only notice her if she had fire spraying from her nipples.  The more I began to study you, to analyze you -- to care about not merely throwing caution to the winds, but having a nuanced and sensitive relationship, the more you began to humiliate me.  On several occasions you went out of your way to make me look like some drunk discus thrower.  

On ice.

I've got to tell you, Pirouettes, I really don't appreciate your becoming inconsistent and even disappearing altogether on me. This even after I've prepared so diligently for your arrival.  In one class, I worked in approximately 960 extra counts of balances so that I'd be ready for you, and you didn't even bother to show up.  Not once. Did I really deserve that?  After working my ass off to know you so very deeply, you go and piqué very my soul.  

Why can't you be more like MyJump, who is always there for me?  Who'd never hurt me.  MyJump evidently cares about my feelings and consistently makes me feel good about myself.  He's such an uplifting guy -- a regular high -- that's what MyJump is.   And, I'll confess, Myjump loves me even more when I beat him.

You're probably going to say it's all my fault, but you intimidate me to the point of nausea.  As soon as I sense you coming I need a Valium. I'm all relaxed and in the music, and then I get into that fourth position and bam! It's like I've just wandered in off the street and and decided to do an interpretative dance to nails on a chalkboard.  Maybe I've given you too much power, but if you'd be a little less assy I could calm the flic-flac down.  

Okay, I'm done now.  I've said what I have to say.  Thanks for listening.  We've had some amazing times, you and I, and I'm not ready to give up on us.  Sniff, sniff!  I'll keep fighting to get you back.  I'll stop feigning debilitating cramps next time you waltz in your slick fouetté suit. Can we make like Stella and get our groove back?  Take it slow, maybe just cool one at a time?  I'll promise to work much, much harder to give you grounded, centered and calm preparations.  I'll use my head better, and I won't let my shoulders get all crazy.

You could also cut me some slack - you know,  my abs are split apart.  You could reach right in there and pull out a tub of Twizzlers and a large milkshake.

Anyway, if there's anything else you need, please, please let me know.  

Because when you want to come back, I'm ready.

Yours Truly,

Devoted Dancer