HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!!!

…and to my friend KRIS!!!

I’m forcing myself to post this morning because if not, today will have equaled no teeth brushing, no dressing myself, no showering, and no blogging. A most definite fail of a day.

Last night Jacob and I headed out alone to Blossom amphitheatre to enjoy two spots of grass and listen to the electrically-awesome Paramore and NO DOUBT! Yeah, baby! Paramore is my new favorite lately. Pops and I pretty much know all the Riot! lyrics by heart. No Doubt was obviously incredibly awesome on their reunion tour. Incredibly. Gwen Stefani looks like a freaking glamazon, even though she just had a baby. I suddenly felt bad about my extreme lack of a flat stomach and the spit-up stains on my hoodie last night.

It’s nice to date my husband, even if we are too poor for the five-hundred-dollar-beers and arm-and-a-leg band t-shirts. When the rain started falling during the last few songs of No Doubt’s set, I about died of happiness. Just me and Jacob in the grass, holding hands, rain on our faces, watching thousands of people shaking it out to Just A Girl. Summer happiness for sure.

It has been exactly one year since I have last stepped foot in a dance studio. Last June I was newly pregnant, finishing my job as assistant director of the Royal School of Ballet, and gearing up for a long year of morning sickness, feet swelling, birth giving, and Poppy rearing. Even though I was teaching ballet last year, I haven’t actually been a student of dance since the spring of 2007.

Yesterday, I went back to class for the first time since giving birth to Poppy. Everyone who bothered listening to me fret about going back to class said not to worry, it would be just like riding a bike.

“You’ll get right back into it – you’ll see!”

Well, after wiggling my way into pink tights and a leotard, I braved the marley floor and rusty barres and did my first official plie in two years. Some of it was like riding a bike. The musicality came back surprisingly well, which I attribute to spending all of last year teaching children the idiosyncrasies of the ballet “rhythm.” (Jacob is laughing at me right now. He doesn’t think dancers have any musicality whatsoever). My memory of combination patterns also came back pretty well. I am glad to know that Poppy did not suck all my brain cells out.

Physically, almost nothing is where it should be. My arms are okay, but I am not used to taking a ballet class without the control to manipulate even the tiniest muscle in my legs, back, hips, stomach and feet. I spent most of the barre work trying to keep my body from boycotting itself. By the time we got to centre, my legs were shaking and my back was a like a knotted mass of interstate.

Even though I was in incredible pain from head to toe, the feeling of moving through space was tremednous. Taking all of that air and swishing it to and fro was about as thrilling as being on the biggest rollercoaster. It felt good to be out of the house, among artists, doing what is good for me. As I was waiting for class to start, an old man walked out of his cello lesson and smiled at me. He wasn’t the teacher, no. He was the student. And he was an old man. I was so encouraged to be around artists, even the ones that are starting over again.