Tough Love

Every Sunday, I drag my ass out of bed at the ungodly hour of 8am for my weekly ballet class. At first classes were hard. You know that stereotypical ballet instructor with a thick russian accent, tight bun and a cigarrete in one hand. Well, my instructor is nothing like that - she's sweet, loving but oh so strict. When I had tears in my eyes in my second class, she just looked at me and said very simply "persevere".

So week after week I returned. I never really enjoyed it. It felt like going to the gym. You dread going but you suck it up and you always feel good (and sore) after. Along the way you learn many lessons. Listen, otherwise you get yelled at when you eff up. Posture, otherwise you get yelled at when you eff up. And my favourite - don't let your hips go, otherwise you get yelled at when you eff up. I think you get the idea. But we know better than to argue. She may be in her eighties but girlfriend can still kick higher than Britney Spears in her prime! She sure knows what she is doing.

Since then I have come a long ways (along with my fellow friends in the class). It's still far from being good. But when she said that we did the best bar exercises this weekend that she has ever seen us do - I wanted to cry tears of joy. Ten minutes later she was criticizing my posture but, hey, those were the most glorious 10 second of my dance life yet. Oh and I did a proper pirouette! That in itself made it all worthwhile.