Happy Saturday! It’s still dark with a touch of a red sunrise. You know the saying, red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning!
People have asked how I ended up working with horses. My path to equine bliss was not predetermined like Janine’s. Mine came after a bunch of experiences that created a very strong aversion to the popular activities for young girls.
I was enrolled in ballet classes. Sensible activity, my friends loved ballet and had all the gear in the required pink.
I joined the happy throng of excited, pink clad pixies. They were the epitome of lightness and grace. Hair in neat buns, little wrap cardigans, outdoor shoes that were of the white and pink variety. One girl even had a special bag to carry her satin ribboned ballet shoes. It was in the shape of a rabbit face, a pink and white rabbit.
Then there was me. I was already experiencing a red alert moment. This whole environment was feeling very alien to me. I felt like the dull brown fish in a beautiful shoal of iridescent, choreographed and synchronized fish. Everyone knew the routine with the exception of me!
The actual class was, I’m sure perfect but it did not compute with my brain. We practiced raising our arms. We were instructed to allow one arm to float, slowly like a butterfly while following it with our eyes. I’m sure the charming lady meant, raise your arm in the air and wave it like you just don’t care. It became apparent that my arms work with precision and speed. It’s here, now it’s there and I would have watched it but it was so fast all I saw was a blur……
Next was essentially running in a circle. That’s not what they call it in ballet class. It’s called flouncing on tip toes. I know this because I tried it and found it lacking and an inefficient use of my time and energy. They added in arms to help them flutter. Ehh? Pumping arms make you go faster, all this fluttering…….
Moving on to the grand finale, standing in line with your feet making odd shapes. Peculiar really that people feel the need to practice pointing the feet and making their heels touch then moving just one leg at a time. I noticed my ribbon was coming undone and slowly slipping down my leg. This did not go unappreciated! Now I could twirl my foot and make the ribbons dance. Such fun, until it’s not. Those silky ribbons didn’t just exist to look pretty, they actually, quite efficiently held the delicate, satin shoe on the foot. Well they would if they hadn’t undone. The shoe left my foot, the class gasped and clearly this was an enormous faux pas. Who knew one little shoe could relieve you of further tortuous ballet classes?
My mother was summoned after class and told that ballet really wasn’t in my future and not to bother bringing me back. If that ballet teacher was anything, it was intuitive!
The ballet class went home looking as immaculate as when they arrived. I went home, face pink from exertion with a halo of hair sticking out in all directions. A clear indication and validation of my lack of finesse and suitability for the world of pink precision!
