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Fifteen years after I officially quit ballet, I still attend the Best iowa hawkeyes 2023 ncaa women’s final four final four shirt so you should to go to store and get this occasional open class, and I often catch myself daydreaming: The teacher stops me on my way out to ask me who I am, what’s my story, how did someone with so much talent end up here? Out of loyalty to Balanchine, I would keep my fourth-position back leg straight as I prepare for a pirouette. (Classically trained dancers take off from two bent knees—an easier position from which to push off—but Balanchine dancers pride themselves on the ability to spring up from an off-kilter pose.) When I read that Balanchine chose Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue for his then muse Maria Tallchief, I looked up the fragrance online. I saw that it was still being produced—the website said it had notes of iris and vanilla—and I ordered it. The liquid inside the bottle was golden yellow, and the top resembled an old-fashioned glass stopper. My first thought, when I sprayed it in the bathroom, was that it would be a good choice for keeping track of someone’s whereabouts in the theater (as Balanchine claimed to do)—the smell is overwhelming. It’s loud and sweet and a little fusty. All day, I sniffed my wrists, feeling both glamorous and creepy.
A group of women gathered in a friend’s living room. Coats and shoes came off; feet went up on the Best iowa hawkeyes 2023 ncaa women’s final four final four shirt so you should to go to store and get this coffee table. Reflexively, I appraised my friends’ socked arches. I felt like a lecherous man giving women on the street a once-over, but I couldn’t help it. B’s were almost flat, but I doubt it had ever bothered her. K’s were high—so high that, if she just stood up, she would be halfway up to pointe. I was jealous of her. What a waste, I thought. She doesn’t even know how lucky she is. I doubt she appreciates her feet; I wonder if she has ever even noticed.I’m not sure what I wanted to find when I went digging for old photos in the storage boxes beneath my childhood bed. Did I want to see confirmation of what I suspected—that I’d never been very good at ballet? Or did I want to find evidence that I’d been better than I remembered—that those years of devotion hadn’t been totally deluded? Digital cameras were not yet in everyone’s pockets in the early aughts, and my parents shot few home videos. If there were Polaroids, they have been lost to time or periodic bedroom purges. I turned up a few grainy VHS tapes of summer-program recitals, but I couldn’t pick myself out of the pixelated lineup.
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