I'm at a restaurant on an open vernanda. It's sunset. I recognize the scenery from Mom's pix of Mexico, yet I know it's Utah.
We eat the food and hang out and I just know it's Utah. I'm awake and there you go...can you guess what I'm excited for?
I watch Melinda's feet in hope that they'll tell me something about the exercise she just demonstrated. I had seen it but not taken a step in. I get what little I can by watching the girls before me then I go.
I get the beginning right but then smack in the middle is the part I don't know. I throw in a couple jetes then chene off. Melinda sees my mistakes but doesn't comment. Instead, she shows the exercise again. I wasn't supposed to go jetes, I was meant to do the donkey step (what's the name again?). Then suteneu off. Oops. There, that's what I fear on a normal day of dance.
Lastly, I'm in the studio again. Tendu quese, season (upstage, towards door) season, peke arabesque. We do it one by one. As fate would have it, I'm last. There, my turn. Tendu quese, *my foot raises clumsily in a pathetic attempt at a pointe*, season * I'm so tight. This exercise is just making it worse. Even so, I can feel exhaustian creep into my thighs, calves, arms. I'm breathing fast.* season *again there's that feeling, except now it's a hundred times worse* peke arabesque *What's going on? My leg won't rise above 90˚, my hips aren't square, no, they look like one of those dance catalog model who had never heard of arabesque until they started modeling. When I try to even my hips out, I lose my balance. By then my calves and back are burning as if on fire and my arms feel like lead pulses through my veins instead of blood.
And this is what I fear after vegging out all Winter Break. To add to the thought, Melinda will see how bad I've gotten and take away my pointe shoes. This is what I fear.