I chickened out of master class on Tuesday. Well, it wasn't really so much a chicken-outing as a "there is no way in hell this is going to work out for me so I think I will just skip it"-outing. So I spent the night at home with my husband and kitties. An evening of reflection and family togetherness, if you will. Mostly what it means is that Thursday's back-to-back classes kicked my ass six ways to Sunday (of Sunday? from Sunday? I've heard it so many different ways. Almost SIX ways, I would venture.) I'm still sore. My shin splints, thankfully calm the last few months, flared up right as we were starting grande allegro. And then my foot chimed in after pre-pointe class like "what the crap do you think you are even doing, woman? This foot was made for walkin'. Walkin' not goaty-footing around like Miss Thang. Knock it off."
Why the heck does taking a few DAYS off of ballet make going back feel like the longest, hardest slog on the planet? I can't even imagine attending a studio that gives it's students the entire season off. I would just turn in to a big blob of goo over the Summer and when I came back I would probably have a heart attack.
Someone I work with often tells the tale of working at a ballet company during a Winter storm. The studio was shut down due to flooding or something and the dancers freaked out because they couldn't fathom not going to class. I can sort of see that, actually.