not so centre stage

Tony: "So, you're not gonna go to law school? What do you wanna do then?"
Mike: "I wanna dance."

- Dazed and Confused

when i was 5 years old, my mother enrolled me in jazz ballet classes at the rochelle dykstra academy of dance. in my first class patron saint of the school miss shelley proclaimed me a "natural", and in my first recital i danced front stage centre to the tune of 'copacabana', resplendent in multi-coloured taffeta skirt and a headpiece of plastic fruit. a star was born.

for the next 10 years or so i danced my little heart out, dreaming of the day i would tour the world with madonna, prince and janet jackson. i would let nothing stand in my way. not the fact i could only ace every third attempt at a triple pirouette. nor the fact that i consistently failed to place first in esteddfods (nor second nor third). and not the fact that by 11 years old i had breasts big enough to launch missiles (most dancers are still waiting to hit puberty when menopause sets in.)

that was until i discovered those cursed things that ruin so many a dream: sex, drugs and rock'n'roll (or perhaps in my case boys, vodka and crash diets.) for a while i tried in vain to keep the flashdance dream alive. but turning up to rehearsals hungover and starving is not exactly the most effective way of striving for dancing glory. and so the dream died, along with several million of my brain cells.

and then a few years ago the urge to dance again overwhelmed me. i began open classes at the sydney dance company. i have since been reliving the dream, attending as many classes as time and money allow. however it seems that the more classes i take, the worse i get. admittedly, having changed styles from jazz to hip-hop, i have entered a whole new world, and i'm not sure i belong.

there are no high-kicks in hip hop. no pirouettes. and definitely no step-ball-changes. now its all pops, locks and body rolls. the standard jazz uniform of leotards, fishnets and jazz shoes is eschewed for acceptable hip-hop attire: baggy pants, trainers and trucker caps. and unless you're wearing missy elliot-endorsed brands, forget about it. and gone are the poppy tunes of madonna and prince (janet remains), replaced by the fragmented beats of missy, justin and all artists produced by the neptunes.

"they" say that practice makes perfect. i used to agree with "them". not anymore though. now i think "they're" liars. practice just takes away the illusion of perfection and replaces it with feelings of inadequacy.