The Ball Cracker

On a bookshelf in my guest room, I have an inconspicuous-looking unlabeled VHS tape. This tape contains evidence of my days as a starry-toed ballerina. Back in the day when I was better at this crazy thing than I ever will be at another thing in my whole life. It's a tape of a staging of the Nutcracker, the year that I played Clara, the lead. As was my m.o. back then, I was the youngest Clara that that dance company had ever had. So there I am, all baby-ish looking and dancing up a pointy-feeted storm like it was the easiest thing I had ever done. Come to think of it, it was.

Every year, my friends say to me: wouldn't it be fun to bust out that tape and have a party where we all watch it? What better thing to do for the holidays? And I go, yeah, sure, that could be fun. But somehow, it never happens. I'm not sure why. I'm not a person who embarrasses easily, people. When I found my journal from high school, which, really, could win AWARDS for embarrassing material, you know what I did? I read it out loud to anyone who would listen to it. I SHOWED people the parts where I described such things as how I wanted Greg Louganis to de-virginize me and how slow dancing with Sean C. made my ears burn hot and what the first penis I ever saw looked like (I actually described it as "nice." Like I met it at bingo and it let me have the last triscuit or something). HONESTLY. I mean, I would read it aloud on this here blog if I thought you guys wouldn't immediately click away. So me and embarrassment, not so much. But there is just something about publicly viewing The Tape that makes me nervous. Maybe I feel like that would just be too narcissistic, to have my friends over to watch ME ME ME. Look at my GENIUS ARTISTRY, LOOOOOOK. But that's dumb, right, because it's not like I can do ANY of that shit now, believe me, so bragging rights are way too far in the past to really matter any more. So I don't know. Should I do it? Just get it over with? Maybe it'll be fun. Right?

But on the other hand, does anyone out there enjoy hearkening back to when they were twelve? It's kind of an excruciating time of life, like, by definition. And there were some excruciating moments that come rushing back when I think of that time. Like, the fact that I had to partner with a man of 25, who played the Prince, and the choreographer kept telling me to "look at him like you looove him. You adoooore him. Look at him with looooooove." Dude, I'm twelve. Stop saying looooove in front of this man, who I already have to be flipped all around by which is bad enough. Or the fact that I had two quick changes during the show, meaning I had to run off stage, literally into the arms of four old seamstress ladies, who stripped me down and slapped my new costume on and pushed me back out on stage. With many other dancers in the wings, RIGHT THERE, where they could see me. Hi, male dancers, this is me in my training bra in a flurry of old ladies and velcro. Or the time that one of my friends, who was two years younger than me and played the role of a gingerbread candy, peed in her costume and stashed the smelly remnants of this in my dressing room after one of the shows. Or the fact that I kind of knew that two of the dancers in the show were having an affair, one of them being married. The reason I knew this was my baby-girl eyes saw them copping a feel on each other one time after a rehearsal. Or the time a talent scout came to a cast party and told me I should audition as one of the little kid parts for the Broadway touring company of "The King and I" but that my headshot should definitely be "in profile" instead of "full faced." I didn't quite get what that meant, but I knew there was a put-down in there somewhere. Or the time when the guy who played my brother "Fritz" (who was older than me too) had a situation where his costume had been altered right before the show, and there was still a PIN inside his pants, that was, um, POKING him. During a two-minute break in our presence on stage, we danced off into the wings and the poor sucker had water in his eyes. "There's a pin in my pants!" he had whispered to me while we were on stage together. As soon as we got to the wings, he plunged his hand down the front of his pants, frantically trying to find the culprit. "Ow! Ow!" he said in a painful panic, as I tried not to look. The seconds were ticking until we had to go back on, and finally he just dropped trou in the muted light and bent over, trying to find the pin. "Help me!" he said. And so I did. I got down there and felt around in this dude's pants. It was like a needle in a haystack (har har). But I found it. And me and that guy? Never really could speak to each other again. Because he was older and I had seen him sans PANTS. And I had put my hands down where his crotchal area had been, and like, felt the warmth of it all. ICK.

So maybe that is it. Just put aside for the moment that it is a tape of a performance. Would any of you out there, if you had a tape of yourself at the age of twelve, feel excited to watch it? To be reminded, in crystal clear color, of the awkwardness of all that puberty had to offer you? And would you invite all your friends over to watch it with you? Doesn't that seem strange?

Am I making too much of it? Probably. I can be nuts that way. Or cracked. Whichever you prefer.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl