when to stop dancing

I picked up the canvas bag. It says, "bolsa del mercado"
on the side, and my sister's name is written in an early
eighties purple paint pen, bubbly letters, on the strap.
They spill out, in one pale peachy pink scratched up
broken and wistful "humpf!" they hit the wood floor.
I hear some taps. I had tried to muffle the tapping by
banging and darning and softening the puckered
bottom one inch near the toe with water. They smell bad.
Real bad. Sweat that's older than my 9 year old sister, and
with as much to say.

Point shoes. They do you no good on the street.
One grand battement to the face and they're a weapon.
But somehow, with much ado about being strong and supple,
they're silent and you're flying. And getting caught up
on that tip in a pirouette or an arabesque feels better than
just about anything. And at 32, I've finally got some comparisons
to make. When it was good, It really was THAT good.

My contemporaries are retiring, or thinking about it.
They're going to college, maybe grad school. Some left when
I did, and have only the memory of long summer classes and some
hey-days in college and one last stab of the feet into these damn
satin promises, that we wanted so badly at ten, then eleven..

In your thirties, it just feels a little ridiculous.

Point shoes are part of the reason I was mystified by ballet.
In the early eighties, the sun had not yet set on the superstars
of that golden era, we didn't know about the cocaine and the
surgeries and the anorexia and the mayhem, and every little
girl wanted to put on a pair and pique', or hurt herself
trying. The frequency with which these too-shiny hard slippers
had to be purchased would rival any shoe spree on Sex & The City.
They're expensive, they break in the matter of a few classes, and
each pair had to be jury-rigged 'just-so' for each foot, each dancer,
which was a ritual that took time, bloodied fingers, and made me feel
...different than other girls. And we know how important
that is to a teenager.

I still dance. Out of joy, out of desperation, at weddings, in
my living room (hey neighbors!) to classical music, to jazz,
to swing, to brass hop, to crickets.
Now, I dance on architecture. As much as possible.
When I can, I dance naked. Preferably in a valley, in the rain,
and with abandon. Ok I don't have many opportunites
to do that. But once is better than never. Watch out Colorado.

Do I give up the shoes? Of course. Will I ever stop getting caught
doing grand jetes in front of random mirrors in public? Never.

Promise.