I was an athlete, once

A few weeks ago I was thinking...about what? I don't remember. But this thought struck me suddenly and forcefully: I was an athlete!

You might not have thought so back then, in the days when I was athletic. I never played basketball, volleyball or football—I barely understand the scoring in basketball, and the rules of the others are completely beyond my comprehension. I couldn't hit a baseball with a bat—in fact, if any ball comes flying toward me my instinct is to cover my head and duck. I can't even hit a golf ball off of its tee (although miniature golf is fun; I can do that). I can't run—never could run—for long distances; I might have been able to run a short sprint, back in the day.

Nope. To look at me now you would never guess that I was an athlete, and most people looking at me then wouldn't have thought so either. They thought I was a dancer.

Pas de Quatre  from Swan Lake (I'm on the left.)
This still photo doesn't look athletic. 
It looks feminine and it looks graceful... 
But, oh man! was this dance a workout!
(click the link above to see the choreography)

They were right—I was a dancer. I went to dance classes from one to three hours every day, five days a week, and, occasionally, to three-hour rehearsals once a week on top of the classes. I took my dance shoes and my music to school every day and skipped lunch so I could practice tap, jazz, and ballet through the lunch hour. I performed group dances and solos, and I was good! I lived and breathed dancing...

but I was still an athlete.

Yankee Doodle—a military tap dance, where every step
sounded like a drum-roll—and Sugar Plum Fairy;
a small group dance and a solo I earned my way into by skipping lunch. (Gotta love that cheeseburger grin, braces and all!)

I couldn't slam-dunk a ball, but I could jump from a standing position to...about twelve or so inches off the ground. I could jump six to eight inches straight up without a running start or even bending my knees first—just from the strength in my legs, torso, and feet. I could hop across the floor on the ends of my toes. I could lift  my leg higher than my head. I could not only bend down and put my hands flat on the floor (with straight knees), but I could put my hands flat on the floor a few inches behind my feet while I was down there. I could stand on one foot for several minutes while moving my other legs and arms–without falling down. I could spin and I could leap—sometimes I spun and leapt at the same time ;-) (tour jete). And I worked on all these things with blistered feet, through torn muscles, and even a sprained ankle.

This is when I did Kitri's solo from Don Quixote—with 32 beats of toe-hops on a sprained ankle that was
still trying to heal. If you want to see the dance, click this link. (Her jumps are much more spectacular than mine ever were, but, just so you know, my toes actually cleared the floor by about an inch with each toe-hop. Just saying.)

I wasn't a body-builder, but I was lean and strong, and had rock-hard muscles. (A favorite memory of Bruce's and mine is when we were sitting down one time—back when we were first dating—and as he reached for something on the floor his hand bumped into my calf. He told me to relax, and I didn't know what he was talking about. He wanted to know why I was clenching my legs.  (??) When I insisted that I was relaxed and my muscles weren't tightened at all, he told me, "Well, then tighten them!" Disbelieving guy. So I tightened that calf; when he felt it, he exclaimed, "Holy Cow!!" He said my muscles were like granite.) Yep. I worked.

I wasn't "in" to sports; I didn't run track or do hurdles, but I could run and jump for several minutes at a time, only taking long enough breaks to learn the next exercise and start up the music.

I never imagined myself as an athlete back then; I scorned athletes who acted like dance was an easy, girly thing. They had no idea! I worked with my "team". I could be in the right spot at the right time. I did it with a smile on my face—no grimacing or grunting. And I did it all in time to music. (How many football players can say that?) I did think of myself as a dancer. It was only a few weeks ago that the inspiration hit me:  "I was an athlete!"

But that's not the point (the pointe?). The point is that I loved it.

I loved it when I was finally able to execute a double pirouette without tipping over; leaping across the floor like I was flying; doing little jumps, getting higher, and a little higher. I loved the jazz isolations; I loved doing the quick, tricky tap steps. I loved the control I had to make my body do exactly what I wanted it to do. I loved working my muscles until they shook, and then working them a little bit more. I loved being stretched and stretched—in my brain as well as my legs. I loved working until I was sweating and breathless. I loved the stiffness in my body that said I'd been working, and I loved working it out again in the next day's classes. I loved the discipline. I loved my teacher. I loved performing—the absolute magic of being on the stage. I loved moving. I loved the Whole. Thing.

And the point now is that I miss it. It was a huge part of me, and I abandoned it for marriage, children, family, and (sadly) lack of funds. ...Although if I'd had the money for lessons I probably would have spent it for my kids and not myself.

I absolutely do not regret putting my family first—I love my family even more than I loved dancing. And I would do the same thing again without a second thought. And I love the things I do now, too. But I do still miss dancing—I am missing it more lately than I ever have (maybe because my kids are grown up enough to not need all my energy?).

I wonder if that is why I am compelled to be moving and doing and busy all the time––part of the reason that I tear out my walls and rip my couches apart. I know there are days (like last Saturday) when I feel like I will explode if I don't move; when I wish I could leap and spin and run; when I wish I could dance. Unfortunately, in the thirty years that have gone by since last  I really danced, I have become too sedate—I stand in one spot and wash dishes; I stand and cook meals; I sit and sew or write. I no longer have the strength, flexibility, or stamina to even run past two houses. (Or the desire to just run. Bo-ring.)

But I still want to dance.
I want to do it again.
I was an athlete.
I wish I still was.