the life of a dancer

Ah, recital times. It's an interesting week of preparation that happens just before our dance recital every year.

Daily practices are assumed, although often times and locations are unannounced until hours before. Practice itself is an organized chaos - this year our studio is our dance teacher's house - with three different dances being performed at once. Dancers are running from room to room, completing one dance and scurrying off to jump into the next one.

Spots, formations, and transitions are clarified; choreography is broken down count by count. This is the time to get every question in the open, to fix every muddled movement. Costumes are discussed and argued about, until we agree on the same old black-and-other-color scheme.

Late hours are kept, tempers flare, attitudes worsen. Arguments ensue, usually about the stupidest things. Stress runs high as music lists are compiled. Programs are written, which is a daunting task as you consider how to make sure nobody has too many quick costume changes.

Your diet goes to hell. Sipping a bottle of water turns into chugging down one or more thirty-two-ounce bottles of Gatorade. The schedule leaves time only for fast food. Then you sweat out the liquids, burn off the greasy calories, rinse and repeat. For a whole week.

All for those few performances, each of which will last but a few moments. But it's worth it, and that's all that matters.

[Note: I decided on the orange dress, by the way.]