The Reason Why I am Terrible at Video Games

Imagine that you are 7 years old again. What did you want to be when you grew up? A princess? A movie star? Maybe even a teacher? Well I, like a lot of little girls, wanted to be a ballerina. And like any 7 year old I pestered my mom about it until eventually she signed me up for ballet lessons.

I remember this about my first day of class: it was the single greatest and most exciting moment in my small life up to that point.

That was, until I got there.

My mother had signed me up at one of the most prestigious ballet schools in the Salt Lake Valley. So, of course, this ballet studio had a dress code that no one had told me about. I showed up in my green and pink striped costume box leotard and skirt only to discover that I was not dressed like everyone else, which, for a girl like me, was traumatic.

I don't remember much else about that day but it was the beginning of an era in my life. For the next several years I spent every afternoon in the ballet studio; taking classes, talking to older dancers, watching the others dance. Ballet was my passion, and passionate I was. I ached for the moment when I could put on my leotard and slippers, my mom would put my hair in a bun and I'd be off to class. I loved my ballet teachers with all my heart, and not because they were nice (because they were not) but simply because they taught me the beautiful art.

Now the goal of every little ballerina is to trade up her little ballet slippers for some pointe shoes. If you had pointe shoes, you were probably one of the best dancers in the world. The thing about dancing on pointe shoes is that you have to be very strong and your bones have to be developed so girls generally don't start until about age 12 or so. And when you're 7, age 12 is ancient. But I was determined to get my feet into some pointe shoes even if it was the last thing I did.

So, finally, it was time to get my first pair of pointe shoes. I remember this about that day: it was the single greatest and most exciting moment in my entire ballet filled life up until that point.

Then ensued the drudgery of preparing and wearing pointe shoes every day for what felt like the rest of my life. My shoes would wear out and I would have to sew ribbons onto a new pair and then break them in. My feet would be covered in blisters that would just be reopened the next day. It didn't matter that I had a broken toe, I danced anyway.

I don't dance anymore, and I miss it every single day. Unfortunately, you can't be a ballerina and a chemist, they're both too time intensive. But remnants of my childhood remain with me: I sit and stand straighter than most, I walk with my chin held high, sometimes I even catch myself with my feet turned out. I still dance around my kitchen, and my bedroom, and my workplace, and my laboratory; a dancer's spirit just cannot be contained.