Flats, pointes (Freeds not Capezio, unless they were your first few pairs and that pink color was what you needed to fulfill your little-girl fantasies), jazz and character shoes. Words like box, shank, vamp. They are not what you might think. Oh, box and shank, how shall I break thee? Let me count the ways: wet and wear them, do two hundred plies, bend them between your hands, crush them under your heel, place them in the space of an open door between the hinges and close the door on them, hit them with a hammer, roll over them with a car (no, that was another girl's lie, I don't believe she did it). When thou art worn beyond belief, how shall I extend thy life? With Future floor acrylic, of course. And the feet in the shoes? I remember the sting of blisters and the lumpy shape of my calloused, deformed toes. I remember the smell of lamb's wool—fluffy when stuffed into the box of the pointes, a matted sweaty mess and sometimes bloody once you were done. The ballet bag always contained: spare shoes, extra ribbons and elastics (for the shoes), lamb's wool, toe tape, toe pads (only used surreptitiously, as they were frowned upon), moleskin, nail clippers, Band Aids, an Ace bandage, baby power, aspirin, Neosporin, Tiger Balm, Ben Gay, rubbing alcohol, a sewing kit (needles used as often to pop blisters as to stitch ribbons and elastic on shoes), dental floss (instead of thread for pointes), super glue, clear nail polish (to stop runs in tights), leg warmers, cut-up-Flashdance-style T-shirt, extra tights that all had slits cut in the foot for easy conversion to and from a "footless" version, rubber pants (yes, rubber: a super-strength kind that made you sweat profusely), deodorant, makeup, hairbrush, hair elastics, hair pins, bobby pins, hair nets, extra-hold hair spray (long hair was a given then). If all this sounds extreme, it is. Was. But no more extreme than the way the feet fly in allegro, the way my own feet carried me high and quick and light across the floor. My feet are so straightlaced now, but they do remember pleasure—sometimes more than the pain.
Flats, pointes (Freeds not Capezio, unless they were your first few pairs and that pink color was what you needed to fulfill your little-girl fantasies), jazz and character shoes. Words like box, shank, vamp. They are not what you might think. Oh, box and shank, how shall I break thee? Let me count the ways: wet and wear them, do two hundred plies, bend them between your hands, crush them under your heel, place them in the space of an open door between the hinges and close the door on them, hit them with a hammer, roll over them with a car (no, that was another girl's lie, I don't believe she did it). When thou art worn beyond belief, how shall I extend thy life? With Future floor acrylic, of course. And the feet in the shoes? I remember the sting of blisters and the lumpy shape of my calloused, deformed toes. I remember the smell of lamb's wool—fluffy when stuffed into the box of the pointes, a matted sweaty mess and sometimes bloody once you were done. The ballet bag always contained: spare shoes, extra ribbons and elastics (for the shoes), lamb's wool, toe tape, toe pads (only used surreptitiously, as they were frowned upon), moleskin, nail clippers, Band Aids, an Ace bandage, baby power, aspirin, Neosporin, Tiger Balm, Ben Gay, rubbing alcohol, a sewing kit (needles used as often to pop blisters as to stitch ribbons and elastic on shoes), dental floss (instead of thread for pointes), super glue, clear nail polish (to stop runs in tights), leg warmers, cut-up-Flashdance-style T-shirt, extra tights that all had slits cut in the foot for easy conversion to and from a "footless" version, rubber pants (yes, rubber: a super-strength kind that made you sweat profusely), deodorant, makeup, hairbrush, hair elastics, hair pins, bobby pins, hair nets, extra-hold hair spray (long hair was a given then). If all this sounds extreme, it is. Was. But no more extreme than the way the feet fly in allegro, the way my own feet carried me high and quick and light across the floor. My feet are so straightlaced now, but they do remember pleasure—sometimes more than the pain.
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Glad you enjoyed it, at least. She is too.
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