Recently, my ballet teacher from college passed away. I’m not sure if she was even 5 feet tall, but she sure was a spitfire. She was a true original: sassy, brutally honest, caring, with a wicked sense of humor to boot. She was a good listener. She sort of had this air of mystery about her. She loved to say shocking things, like telling us to pull up from our vaginas. She had the best analogies (“Dance like you’re churning butter!” or “Mixing cake batter! Thick and gooey!”), and I really wish I could remember more of them. A lot of them involved food. If you did something wrong, she would make fun of you (in a good way) and make you laugh about it as she gave corrections. She’d tease the athletes taking her class as a requirement for their sport to “Run like normal people!”
We met up periodically for lunch or coffee even after I’d graduated. But it’s been a few years since our last get-together. I wish I had been better about keeping in touch.
Hopefully she’s giving class up in heaven, talking nonchalantly while holding some angel’s leg up over her head.