I started dancing school at the age of three. Now, I very clearly remember hearing the doctor telling my mother that it would strengthen my ankles (this was back in the days when "general practitioners" actually did something other than write referrals and hand out Z-Packs like PEZ) and the next thing I knew, I had a pair of funky pink slippers and a pair of shiny black shoes that made awesome sounds.
I went from classes in ballet and tap from twice a week, to classes in ballet, tap, and gymnastics three times a week.
I learned to find rhythm and breath, to step and pace in time, to enjoy the flying freedom of my body in motion. Music and movement became one for me, a part of how my heart beats, of the way I breath.
By the time I was ready for high-school, it was my dream to be a triple threat: a performer who could sing, dance, and act, and I auditioned for the school that would bring that dream closer. I was also required to take something called the "co-op" exam, something I'd been studying for every summer from approximately the fifth grade on; this test would allow me entrance to different Catholic and/or private schools depending on my grades, as well as a city-wide test, that would also allow or deny me entrance to specialized city schools.
In the end, I got into all the schools I wanted to, but it turned out that despite that, there had been no choice, not for me: I would go to the school my parents had wanted me to go to all along.
The academics were challenging, but a sport was required for certain (specific) colleges, so I took up one that wouldn't require tremendous financial output (since my sibs and I were all reminded on a daily basis of how much we cost), that wouldn't require too much travel (again, with both parents working, transportation was an issue), and finally, one that my grandfather--my father's father--was truly passionate about.
I ran. I ran cross-country. I prepped and prepped with the team, I learned about "Cardiac Hill" in Clove Lakes Park (it sucks, in case you were wondering, and somehow it seems all races in that park require it) and finally, it was time for the first race. For the first time since school had started, my mom drove me to something.
The course we ran was significantly different from the course we trained on: varied paths, varied terrain. I learned quickly that some participants (from other schools) ran "dirty" -- after I was literally shoved into a tree.
At some point, in fact, for the last third or so, I ran alone, convinced I was lost, that I was the last one, not just for the school, but for the entire race! I was embarrassed, disappointed, and ashamed of myself. I had let absolutely everyone down, including myself. And my mom was there.
But I had to finish, so I kept my breath and my rhythm, kept it moving, kept myself going. There was flow and I was in it. If I couldn't place well, at least I could pace well, and that had to count for something.
Then came the last 100 yards or so. There were people. They were yelling. I was just about to slow my stride, when I recognized one of my team mates, a sophomore or junior (I don't remember which), screaming encouragement.
I did as I'd been taught in practice: I found what was left and poured it out, all of it, everything I had left into a pure sprint through the finish line. I might have been last, I might have been terrible, but I was at least going to do my dead-level best.
My legs, my hands, my whole body shook. I think I cried. And as I stood there, being hugged by my team mates and given something to drink, I glanced with the rest of them to watch what was happening. The race wasn't over yet -- not even half.
A boy who hung out in the park with his friends playing basketball during our practices came over to say hello, and from the corner from my eye I saw my mom in something resembling a heated discussion with the coach.
Just as one of my team-mates told me I'd come in first for the freshman team, my mom dragged me away. She quizzed me about the boy, she quizzed me about the race, and I told her all of it, from thinking I was lost, to thinking I was last, from the shove and stumble into a tree that left me coughing for a bit, to finding out I'd been first for OUR freshman team.
She said nothing, and the next practice, I wasn't allowed to go--I would never race cross country for my school again. I did find out when I told the coach I couldn't go that I had placed somewhere in the top 30% or so in a race that had held over 100 entrants.
And I had to quit dancing school, since it interfered too much with my academics.
But...I still danced and stretched and did my floor work outs at home, and when I could, I grabbed my sneakers--and went out for a run.
Today was not a running day. Technically, it was a yoga day. Which sucked, only because I was really in the mood to run, not to do the work that yoga requires both physically and mentally.
Breakfast: 2 soft-boiled eggs, salmon, hummus
Lunch: half a burger (no cheese, no bun), some fries
Dinner: more dead cow (steak, this time) and roasted potatoes (maybe the equivalent of one medium potato).
Mood saver: Starbucks Espresso Doubleshot (yes, I have a thing for them!)
I compromised with myself when I got home.
But...I changed my clothes, and I did it. And because I so needed to honor the part of me that needed to run, to fly, to feel the rhythm of motion, I did a full floor stretch, the same one I've been working on since I was so small.
By the way, while I never officially ran track again (my own individual adventures aside), a few days after my mom said "no," I learned something very interesting: my school had a swim team. No strange people hanging around the pool we practiced in, very contained locations...and I knew exactly what sport I would do for the next few years.
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