When I was seven, my mother arranged for my two sisters, ages five and nine, and me to take ballet classes at our local community center. We purchased the requisite black leotards, pink tights and ballet slippers, which I laid out carefully beside my bed. I could barely contain my anticipation for the first day of class.
We donned our ballet attire and were chauffeured to the community center at the appointed time. I was in ballerina heaven and practiced every move with serious determination. Visions of Sugar Plum Fairies danced in my head.
When my mother collected us an hour later, I was flushed with excitement and couldn’t wait for the next class. My two sisters, however, wanted no part of the ballet life and refused to go back. Apparently, the activity decisions in our family were decided by democratic vote, so my ballet career began and ended in one day. It was the first time I ever said, “What’s up with that? Life just isn’t fair!”
Many years later, when I was in my mid-thirties, I noticed an ad in our neighborhood newsletter for an adult ballet exercise class. I couldn’t get to the phone fast enough to sign up. The visions of Sugar Plum Fairies had returned and this time, no one could stand in my way. Once again, I purchased the required black leotard, pink tights and ballet slippers—ballerina heaven, here I come.
There were eight of us middle-aged to older-aged women in the class—apparently all deprived of our childhood dreams to be prima ballerinas; ethereal visions in tulle. We pirouetted, pliéd and chasséd our hearts out, up and down the wooden floor in the mirrored studio. But, alas, there would be no Nutcracker Suite performances for us.
It turned out to be a wonderful exercise class, but my fantasy of wearing a beautiful tulle costume and dancing in the spotlight with the Nutcracker Prince would never come to pass. Or at least that’s what I thought, until one day, many years later when I was in my mid-fifties, and an invitation to the First Annual Neighborhood Costume Party arrived in the mail.
My ballerina dream bubbled to the surface, and I made a beeline to the fabric store to purchase yards and yards of pink tulle. For days, I worked on my costume. Then one afternoon, I pranced into the living room and twirled around for my husband, Bob, to admire. I was a slightly plump, gray-haired vision in tulle.
He pushed the mute button on the television to silence the sirens blaring from his favorite police reality show. “Very nice,” he smiled.
“I’m the Sugar Plum Fairy,” I explained. “And you will be my Nutcracker Prince,” I added, holding up a man’s formal red jacket, complete with tails, and a spectacular hat with a fluffy plume.”
“Hmm,” was his suspicious reply. “Where are the pants?”
Dang, I was busted! Reluctantly, I held up a pair of men’s white tights.
He raised one eyebrow and pressed the mute button again. The sirens blared from the television speakers as the good guys continued their pursuit of the bad guys.
I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.
On the night of the big event, I finally realized my Sugar Plum Fairy dream; it had taken me nearly fifty years. I wasn’t dancing around a stage on pointed ballerina shoes, but my ballet slippers were tied with pink satin ribbons, my tulle skirt swirled around me like a cloud, and my rhinestone tiara sparkled under the dance floor spotlights.
Bob chose to wear a gangster costume, with a black pinstripe suit, black shirt and tie and a fedora hat. But his favorite accessory was the fake Tommy gun that he slung jauntily over his shoulder. He was the infamous mobster, Nicky “The Nutcracker” Scarpetti.
He wasn’t quite the “Nutcracker Prince” that I had envisioned, but a prince by any other name is still a prince!
It was a magical evening.
