Some of my friends have been posting old photos on Facebook for Throw-Back Thursday. It’s really cool to see those old pictures. I especially enjoy the photos of my newer friends – so sweet to see them as the teenagers I didn’t know. Like a flashback in a movie. A time machine that gives you just a peek at the past you missed.
So I decided that this week I would post a TBT photo. And looking through my desk drawers, I found this:
Printed on the back: May 1976.
I was 25.
At first, I didn’t even recognize me. Then all of a sudden I remembered. I remembered my mother taking this photo. I was doing some stretches before my ballet class.
I wrote a while back that I never got the dance lessons I wanted when I was a kid. So when I got my first job, I took a ballet class for adults.
I remember the leotard I was wearing in the photo.
And that’s it.
I don’t remember where the class was, what the room or the building looked like, who the teacher was, any of the other students, and not one dance or even one single position. I can’t picture myself at the barre. Or at the bar, afterwards, for that matter.
I have a really fantastic memory, and I have been sitting with this photo, just waiting for it to all come back to me.
Granted it is much more recent, but I remember every little move, every piece of music, everybody who has stood next to me, everything everybody has worn, every bounce of my teacher’s ponytail – EVERY SINGLE THING – from my Zumba classes. And I think I always will.
Who knew that the earnest, studious, careful woman trying to learn ballet at twenty-five would –
at sixty-three –
prefer Pitbull to Pas De Deux?