Well, glad they cleared that up

One of the things I've always loved about New York and will miss the most is of course the scintillating, sophisticated conversation New Yorkers are so known for—like that I overheard while waiting for the train today:

Man 1: Hey what's up bro.

Man 2: What's up man.

Man 1: What's goin' on.

Man 2: What are you up to?

Man 1: What’s that?

Man 2: Hey man.

....Riveting. 

Jumping for joy

Several weeks ago, as I was about to go in to the Metropolitan Opera House to watch American Ballet Theatre's production of Le Corsaire, I sat outside on the rim of the famous fountain in the plaza, an icon to ballet bunheads who, like me, grew up idolizing American Ballet Theatre and dreaming of one day performing on the Met's stage.  And as I listened to the water and gazed at the giant banner of the company that epitomized what I worked so many hours in the studio striving for as a child, tears came to my eyes.  Because the next day I was auditioning for a very small role in their production of Sleeping Beauty, and I knew that in 24 hours I would either know that I get to perform on the Met stage, or, with the end of my time in New York City likely in sight, I would know that this was one dream I had to let go of forever.  I sat there for a good 20 minutes, allowing myself to fully feel whatever emotions sprang up like the shooting water next to me. I watched young students from ballet summer intensives enter the theatre with their hair still in perfect buns from their hours of classes, arriving to watch what they hoped was their future. I watched a middle-aged slim woman strike a dance pose in front of the fountain on which I now sat, and I wondered if this had been her dream once, too. I watched little girls with ballet-inspired dresses twirling in front of the posters as their parents took photos, the joy of dance and hope and endless possibilities in their eyes.

And I gathered myself together and went inside to watch the magic that I have loved since I was five years old.

Twenty-four hours later I had tears in my eyes again, but this time they weren't sad or wistful tears. I've had successful auditions before, but for the first time in my life, I knew what the dancers selected at the end of A Chorus Line feel like. I didn't have time to stop and sit on the fountain as I left with a friend of mine who had also been selected, both of us texting our parents and husbands in all caps, but I looked back at the fountain with joy as its water jumped up like fireworks as if to say, "Congratulations! Way to go!"

So for 7 1/2 minutes a night, for all eight shows of American Ballet Theatre's Sleeping Beauty, I get to perform on stage at the Met with my dream company as a knitting lady sentenced to death for using needles. I don't pirouette or leap, but that doesn't matter.  A small sliver of a dream come true still feels gigantically, incredibly awesome to me.  As I stand in the wings every night, I look out at the stage and think, "This is the stage that I've watched on video tapes I've played until they're ragged. Julie Kent waited in these wings. Baryshnikov waited in these wings."  I enter alone at the top of Act 1 before summoning my fellow knitting ladies on stage, and as I wait for my music, pressed up against the curtain, I feel the exquisite joy and rush of adrenaline that so many countless ballet dancers have felt as they stand precisely where I stand.  I enter the stage and for a few brief seconds, over 3000 pairs of eyes are on me. And then I get to play on stage for 7 1/2 minutes with an orchestra. With American Ballet Theatre. With my dream.

This is what those 7 1/2 minutes on stage feel like.