Prima Laugha-rina

When I was young, I did ballet, and like many young girls (and some boys), I loved it.  I had high hopes of living in New York City one day and dancing professionally, no doubt mentored by Barishnykov or the elegant, eclectic troupe at Alvin Ailey.  I would wear tattered jeans over my tights and live in a studio apartment (which, at the time, conjured up visions of an urban dwelling that resembled a spacious dance studio with an open layout and hardwood floors . . . oh, the irony).

In truth, a studio apartment is a shoebox; I could never live in NYC (the Yankees play there), and I'm built more like a beach volleyball player than a ballerina (without an ounce of volleyball related skill), not to mention my second toe is abnormally long and, therefore, a nuisance in pointe shoes.  I digress . . .  I loved ballet, and soon after I stopped dancing regularly in high school, I started doing yoga.  At that stage, my flexibility came in handy, and I naturally gravitated toward yoga's gracefulness and precision.  And, I haven't danced since.

While I've toyed with the idea of an adult ballet class here in Boston (heck, I live a few pirouettes away from Boston Ballet), I never make it past the mental check list of "where does one buy ballet shoes?" and "how ridiculous will I look in a leotard?"  

Fortunately, I was able to bypass the check list and experience a glimmer of my ballet days last night at the gym.  Yup, the gym.  Perhaps you've noticed that ballet-inspired workouts are leaping into popularity right now.  Some are fused with weights such as Equinox's Barre Burn or yoga and pilates (a la Barre3- Madonna is a fan), and all aim to let you plie your way to long muscles and a tutu-worthy tush.

I had a blast.  I looked ridiculous.  I can't wait to do it again.