My first husband used to say that feet were the ugliest part of the body, and he wasn’t even talking about my feet when he said it. He just thought that feet in general were gross. I thought his feet were okay. My feet, however, showed major signs of wear and tear, but hey! I’d been a ballerina, after all.
Do you have any idea what it’s like stuffing your size six feet into size three “pointe shoes” and standing on your toes, twirling on one foot, the other perched half mast at your knee? “Boureeing” endlessly across a crowded room? Jumping into the air (Grande jete, anyone?) then landing on those legs and feet, routinely?
I have callouses to rival a construction workers, but they’re on my feet, not my hands. I have bent toes like my mom had–a first generation American from a poor immigrant family. Mom’s awful toes came from wearing hand-me-down shoes; shoes not her size, but better than no shoes at all. Immigrant families made choices in her day. Poverty had its priorities, and proper shoes weren’t necessarily one of them.
I remember taking ballet classes, summers in New York–putting on leotards, tights, and ballet slippers in many different dressing rooms, each filled with lots of other hopeful, wannabee professionals and the occasional star. Finding myself one day, standing next to Allegra Kent–soloist with the New York City Ballet…I stared at her feet. This airy, sylph-like, celebrated dancer, who looked to be the embodiment of eternal youth, had prominent blue veins that stood out like an old person’s. She was only 5 to 6 years older than me, and I wondered, “Will my veins stand out like that in six more years? The words “collateral damage” began to take on new meaning, and the old song, “Dance, Ballerina, Dance” lost a wee bit of traction on my personal Hit Parade.