It’s been a whole year now. A whole year since I put on a pair of tights and a leotard. A whole year since I slipped into a pair of ballet shoes or practiced my tap routine barefoot through my living room. I have been dance-sober for one whole year. Granted, this past year has gone by the fastest of any of the years of my life, but, at the end of the day, it’s still been 365 days without one of my passions: dance.
Dancing is something I could always count on for happiness, stress relief, and this feeling that I haven’t gotten from anything else I’ve ever done. Being a performer is one of the most difficult and taxing hobbies I have undertaken. It is also rewarding. The feeling you experience when you step onto a stage and the lights hit you, that’s what being a performer really is about. When a performer stops performing, sometimes, giving up that indescribable feeling is what hurts the most.
That feeling. I’ll try to put words to it for those who have never had the pleasure of feeling it. Where do I start? First, the background story. The hours of class, the hundreds of times you have to mess up before you can get it right, the late nights you spend in the studio, the blisters and bloody toes and sore feet. Then, after the countless hours of pouring your heart into every step you take across that dance floor in your beloved studio, you reach recital week. Recital week means a promotion – you finally get to set foot onto the stage.
It looks just like it did last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. And it feels good. Scratch that, it feels great. You know what, it feels better than great. The first glimpse you catch of it sends electricity through your veins. It’s the kind of feeling you only get once a year. My dance teacher once said, “Recital week is like Christmas morning, except for a dancer.” I couldn’t agree more. Then after all of the rehearsals and the nights of getting home at 11 P.M. with sore feet and a tired body and a face that’s been caked with makeup and hair that’s so thick with hairspray and gel that after a week of showers, you’ll still be able to smell it. Then, and only then, comes the most important day of all: recital day.
You spend all day that day getting ready for the night. You see the lights in the audience flash through the spaces in the curtain, signaling guests to take their seats. The intro music plays. Then the curtain opens. Show time. Your toes touch the stage for the first time that night. It takes your breath away, goosebumps cover your whole body, and your “stage smile” spreads across your face. None of that changes the rest of the night. From when the director yells, “Places!” until the curtain closes with all dancers on stage waving to their families in the audience. It’s wonderful, and if you could live in that moment every day, you probably would.
Eventually, every dancer will hang up her point shoes and dance bag for the last time. Someday, you won’t be stressed about that quick change in the wings and you won’t panic over forgetting the first steps to your dance. You won’t buy makeup that coordinates to your costumes. You won’t receive post-show flowers and kisses from your family. The transition will probably be tough. You’ll get through it and you’ll be able to look back at all you’ve accomplished and all of the happiness you created and you’ll be able to cherish the memories. Because you may be able to take the performer off of the stage, but you definitely cannot take the stage out of the performer.
