Not much can convince me that a class before 9:55 a.m. is worth taking. I always had a strict policy against taking early classes, until I was tempted by the timetable, 14 open spots beckoning me—Ballet I.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I dreamed I could become a brilliant ballerina. Who knew what talent was hidden beneath my physically awkward surface? I never had lessons, so logically, I could just be a great, undiscovered talent. I'd get to class the first day, or so my fantasy went, and stand at the barre—legs at a perfect turnout, toes wonderfully pointed. I'd leap across the room and into a principle role with the American Ballet Theatre.
I signed up.
When I was little, ballerina was at the top of my potential career list. Right up there with historical re-enactor—given up due to lack of butter-churning muscles—and princess, which had been going strong until a few weeks ago.
""He's engaged,"" I told my friend Peter, fighting back tears.
""Who?""
""Prince William. To some girl who wears bad hats named Kate Middleton. I don't know if he's actually engaged, but I was reading Hello magazine and—""
""How does this affect you in any way?"" he asked, bursting my bubble of indignation.
""Well, it's just I always, well, kind of wanted to be a princess. And I figured he was my best shot. Or at least my most attractive. All the ones from Monaco look like horses.""
""When I was little, I wanted to work at the zoo,"" Peter said. ""Not be a zoologist, not a biologist, not a vet, I just wanted to be someone who worked there—sweeping, selling ice cream, animal watching. Then I wanted to be a deacon—because I thought communion wafers tasted good and priests couldn't get married—and then I figured out I was gay, and now I work in media analysis. Sigh.""
He was right.
Everyone has a plethora of dashed dreams—my roommate, the pre-med, economics and biology major, just wanted to drive a city bus; a friend with a Ph.D. in chemistry had dreams of being a monkey king, ""like in ‘The Jungle Book;'"" and another friend graduating with a German degree had her sights set on being a member of the ski patrol.
Most of the stories end the same way, whether it be with the realization a city bus driver does not come with very good benefits or humans cannot exist at the top of a monkey monarchy.
""I just wanted to be an astronaut,"" the story of another friend goes. ""I went to space camp. I convinced myself astronaut ice cream tasted good. And then I got glasses, and as I'm walking out, the doctor says it will all be fine—as long as I didn't want to be a pilot or an astronaut. I cried all the way home.""
Physical deformity is what did me in—I didn't have the athletic prowess to be an Olympic volleyball player or the attractiveness to be a Kennedy. As it turns out, I also don't have any sense of balance or grace or rhythm necessary to be a ballerina. And while pink tights, ballet slippers and leotards can make most anyone look infinitely more graceful, they can't change the klutz inside.
I'm still holding out for the princess career path.
If you own a white horse and have a spare tiara sitting around, e-mail Caitlin at cfcieslikmis@wisc.edu.
