Ballet runs as regimented as the kitchen. The two share a hierarchy (steep), a language (French), and a core value (discipline). Just as the dishwasher strives for the rank of chef, so too the bumblebee in pink slippers stares wistfully at the soloist. She yearns for the spotlight.
It’s a long trudge. Years of sweat, injuries, and setbacks. Season after season suiting up as doll, cat, elf.
Then one midsummer night, my sprite takes center stage as Puck: saucy, daring, mischievous. She leaps and rolls. She mismatches couples, delighting in her handiwork: havoc.
After her final shrug come bows, executed by rank: chubby bugs, fair fairies, sugar-sweet flowers. Over the years, Puck has worked her way through these uniforms. She sinks and smiles, then defers to the couples—strong dancers whose costumes she still covets. There’s always another station or pas de deux.
For tonight, she’s done her job. We mortal fools know the joy of havoc and the comfort of order. My ballerina pulls off her woodland garb. No time for hug, or flower-strewn cupcake. She’s got a date.
Take a bow, Leah 😘