Happy birthday!
It's a hell of ride, huh?
Remember back in high school when we got locked out of my mom's house and had to break in through the window, destroying the screen, and left her a note telling her to write it off to the exuberance of youth? Remember how that worked, and she wasn't mad?
I think that even though now we're both past the 40-year mark, we can still do that. We can still write everything off to the exuberance of youth. The trick is to still do stuff that requires writing off. So it's a good thing you're coming to visit, because we need to figure out what that stuff is now that our moms don't really care what kind of trouble we get into.
I know I gave you the life-gets-better-after-40 talk the other night. And it's not bullshit. I mean, some of the wheels fall off, but I think you come to realize that you don't need those wheels to get around anyway. You can turn on the jet propulsion instead and go much faster.
So here's to the wind in your hair. I love you. So much.
xo
Hollie
The principal dancer probably won't look back when she's 40 and say, "Damn, I wish I would have been in advertising." She's only 17 or so now, so fate may take her by the hand anyway and force her there, but after watching her carelessly swing her ankle in the vicinity of her ear, I think, probably not.
But here I am, the clock ticking toward 40, and I'm thinking: I wish I would have been a professional dancer. Being backstage with dozens of other amateur dancers is one thing. Being backstage with dozens of other amateur dancers and two Real Dancers is quite another.
Real Dancers get their own dressing room. Their postmodern tutus are carefully arranged on the pipe that serves as a hanger. The light bulbs surrounding their mirror are all in operational order. Their makeup boxes are exactly where they left them. Real Dancers warm up in costume in the common area with the rest of us. But Real Dancers aren't about to throw up because they're so nervous. They look, instead, like they've been meditating for a few hours. And they wear Real Ballet Shoes, which they have to periodically and loudly grind into a box of chalk while the rest of us are trying to simply keep breakfast down.
For your reference, here is a photo of a Real Dancer and Robert Sher-Macherndl, who is the choreographer for the Lemon Sponge Cake Contemporary Ballet:
During dress rehearsal last week, I was standing in the very small wing, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with the other folks in this performance, when someone came up behind me. She was tall, thin, with an amazing haircut, full stage makeup, and the most fierce pair of Chanel boots I have ever seen, both in print and in real life. These are the shoes dreams are made of. Knee high, black patent leather, side zip, with interlocking C's on the toes. I have searched in vain on the Internet to find photos of these shoes, but looking at Chanel couture for three hours just depressed me. And then I was late on a deadline.
Anyway, what struck me most about Ms. Fierce Boots Dancer is that I AM NOT HER. Yeah, I know, I am who I am, and that's great, and I'm amazing, and look what I'm doing with my life, and I got up on stage, and I stand up for what I believe in. Et cetera.
But for one moment let's just all admit that there are people whose lives we wish we had. Or could at least try out. Here is my list:
- Dancer (who gets paid for it, and not with dollar bills)
- NYT columnist
- Archaeologist
- MD
- Rock star
- Fashion icon
I watched Fierce Boots perform today, and she's incredible. She took the choreography given to us dilettantes and turned it into madcrazy art. Punk rock ballet. Breathtaking. Turns out she's being filmed for MTV's Made. Turns out she's a principal dancer with the ABT.
I have come to a conclusion: the only reason I can't find photos of those boots is that they are imposters, for sale at your neighborhood nail salon. I'll see you there.
