You know how people talk about the way certain smells can instantly bring back a flood of vivid memories? Admittedly, most of mine involve moments when I get whiffs of certain kinds of alcohol and am transported back to memories (using this term loosely here, as it implies I am remembering all of these incidents) that involve me puking or trying to get into the house without having to speak to my parents (an unsuccessful feat 99.8% of the time).
The other day at work, however, when I stepped into the bathroom to wash my hands after somewhat aggressively eating a pack of Peanut M&Ms, the smell of hairspray transported me to a place that I literally haven’t thought about, except maybe in therapy, for years, the basement of the performing arts center at Wesleyan College in Macon, Georgia.
I’m 10 years old, and my body shape can best be described as a steamed pork bun. I’m wearing red lipstick and a glittered little crop top/flared pants getup that, when paired with the unfortunate bangs I had, was worthy of at LEAST seven felony charges. I am at my dance recital, and although my disastrous ballet performance as a “French Lady” might be over, my jazz performance as an elementary school-aged sensual cowgirl temptress is in about ten minutes.
If you can’t tell by now, I hated dance, like hated it to the point where I would throw tantrums before class because I hoped if my face got red and tear stained enough I would not have to go. My mom would then get to the point where she did nott want to risk me making a scene at the dance studio in front of other people, and let me skip class. This didn’t happen as often as I would’ve liked, because my mother is from the northeast, doesn’t embarrass easily, and had the audacity to make my brother and I fulfill commitments we had made.
Let me just say that I didn’t hate dance because I was bullied or anything like that, in fact, I met several girls at dance that I still consider friends today. I hated dance because I was terrible at it and I was incredibly aware of just how awful I was. I would watch the taller, more graceful girls glide effortlessly across the floor and convince myself that I absolutely looked like that, when in reality, I more closely resembled some sort of large sea creature that had found itself beached, and was desperately trying to flail it’s way back to the water.
I’m not sure how I ended up taking dance for 13 years of my life when I loathed it so much. Maybe it’s because I was born with exactly zero rhythm and was trying to gain some? That never happened. I even have moments today where I struggle to keep up with the most caucasian of beats (my most humiliating moment to date was when I realized I was clapping off beat at a Taylor Swift concert last summer). Maybe it’s because the good lord saw fit to make sure I sought out therapy as an adult because he knew by that point the people in my life would deserve a break from my constant need to hear myself talk? It could be a lot of things but we really don’t have time for a complete list. However, I did learn a valuable lesson and that was that there were going to be things in life that I wasn’t good at, but had to do anyway (example, I met Lena Dunham at a work event a few years ago and had to pretend to be excited). Challenges like this have ultimately made me a more well-rounded (ish) person. That being said, I sincerely apologize to all those who had to sit through my dance recitals back in the day and had to pretend I had given a Misty Copeland level performance when you saw me afterwards and handed me a congratulatory bouquet. You’re the strongest people I know.
notoriousgnb 