“Tuck in your butt! Holly, tuck in your butt!”
This is the refrain I remember clearly from my childhood ballet lessons. The fact of the matter was that I had a butt, and it pooked out in a very un-ballerina-like fashion. No amount of tucking would tame my derrière into the desired perfectly petite pink leotard-clad package.
But the thinly veiled disappointment of my instructor aside, I loved ballet. When we were quite young, my two older brothers and I were members of the Dallas Ballet, and as such we toured the state of Texas one glorious Christmas season performing in the Nutcracker. Tour bus, brightly lit dressing rooms, principals from the New York City Ballet - we had it all. Now I’m sure that those of you who know me personally are laughing aloud right now, as it’s no secret that I lack the natural grace and balance required of most ballerinas. I’ll admit I was never very good at pliés and relevés, and I certainly didn’t progress far enough to earn my pointe shoes. But I was energetic and a confident performer, perfect in the role of a mouse, which required little more than scurrying and scuttling across the stage with my fur-clad companions. We were the rodent army, sent to terrorize poor Clara as visions of sugarplums drifted across her innocent holiday dreams. We wore arguably the best costumes of the entire production, beautiful coarse brown fur covered get-ups, topped with elaborate mouse heads formed on foundations of motorcycle helmets. We had the least specifically choreographed moves in the entire show and our costumes were kickass cool. It was pure childhood heaven.
I’m reminded of all this because tonight I will attend a production of the Nutcracker with my family, a kickoff to our Christmas celebration and a certain flashback to our days in the spotlight. I don’t often go to see the Nutcracker, though I do always long to do so, a mystical pull to relive the memories and simplicity of my youth. Or perhaps it’s just a desire to experience firsthand the realization of my own Christmas miracle - that from a klutzy graceless excuse of a dancer with an untamable bubble-butt I somehow transformed into a klutzy graceless adult who is also magically a fairly decent athlete. Thank you, Santa.