Looking back now, it seems
that I have had a life-long love affair with dancing (ballet,
Country Western, and ballroom)—an activity that gives me great joy.
I wrote the
following story called “Visions of Sugar Plums” for my book, What’s Up With
That? It’s a slightly “embellished” but mostly true account of my thwarted ballet
career.
Read more about my dancing adventures
in the following Cancer Journey blog posts: You
Take My Breath Away, and Birds
and Planes and the Cha-Cha-Cha.
Visions of Sugar Plums
by Gloria Hander Lyons
When I was seven, my mother
arranged for my two sisters, ages five and nine, and me to take ballet classes
at our local community center. We purchased the requisite black leotards, pink
tights and ballet slippers, which I laid out carefully beside my bed. I could
barely contain my anticipation for the first day of class.
We donned our ballet attire
and were chauffeured to the community center at the appointed time. I was in
ballerina heaven and practiced every move with serious determination. Visions
of Sugar Plum Fairies danced in my head.
When my mother collected us
an hour later, I was flushed with excitement and couldn’t wait for the next
class. My two sisters, however, wanted no part of the ballet life and refused
to go back. Apparently, the activity decisions in our family were decided by
democratic vote, so my ballet career began and ended in one day. It was the
first time I ever said, “What’s up with that? Life just isn’t fair!”
Many years later, when I was
in my mid-thirties, I noticed an ad in our neighborhood newsletter for an adult
ballet exercise class. I couldn’t get to the phone fast enough to sign up. The
visions of Sugar Plum Fairies had returned and this time, no one would stand in
my way. Once again, I purchased the required black leotard, pink tights and
ballet slippers—ballerina heaven, here I come.
There were eight of us
middle-aged to older-aged women in the class—apparently all deprived of our
childhood dreams to be prima ballerinas; ethereal visions in tulle. We
pirouetted, pliéd and chasséd our hearts out, up and down that wooden floor in
the mirrored studio. But, alas, there would be no Nutcracker Suite performances
for us.
It turned out to be a
wonderful exercise class, but my fantasy of wearing a beautiful tulle costume
and dancing in the spotlight with the Nutcracker Prince would never come to
pass. Or at least that’s what I thought, until one day, many years later when I
was in my mid-fifties, and an invitation to the First Annual Neighborhood
Costume Party arrived in the mail.
My ballerina dream bubbled to
the surface, and I made a beeline to the fabric store to purchase yards and
yards of pink tulle. For days, I worked on my costume. Then one afternoon, I pranced
into the living room and twirled around for my husband, Bob, to admire. I was a
slightly plump, gray-haired vision in tulle.
He pushed the mute button on
the television to silence the sirens blaring from his favorite police reality
show. “Very nice,” he said, smiling.
“I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy,” I
explained. “And you will be my Nutcracker Prince,” I added, holding up a man’s
formal red jacket, complete with tails, and a spectacular hat with a fluffy
plume.”
“Hmm,” he replied,
suspiciously. “Where are the pants?”
Dang, I was busted! Reluctantly,
I held up a pair of men’s white tights.
He raised one eyebrow and pressed
the mute button again. The sirens blared from the television speakers as the
good guys continued their pursuit of the bad guys. I knew it was a long shot,
but I had to try.
On the night of the big
event, I finally realized my Sugar Plum Fairy dream; it had taken me nearly
fifty years. I wasn’t dancing around a stage on pointed ballerina shoes, but my
ballet slippers were tied with pink satin ribbons, my tulle skirt swirled
around me like a cloud, and my rhinestone tiara sparkled under the dance floor
spotlights.
Bob chose to wear a gangster
costume, with a black pinstripe suit, black shirt and tie, a fedora hat, and
his favorite accessory—the fake Tommy gun that he slung jauntily over his
shoulder. He was the infamous mobster, Nicky “The Nutcracker” Scarpetti.
Not quite the “Nutcracker
Prince” I had envisioned, but a prince by any other name is still a prince!
It was a magical evening.
Keep Dancing for Joy!
