I cried during my first ballet class, and I didn’t know why.
But then, I didn’t know why I was there either — not really. I knew it was a good idea to get some exercise. At sixty-two, and heavier than I had ever been in a lifetime of trying to cajole or bully my body into a more pleasing shape, I felt guilty about not taking better care of myself. At the same time, I felt guilty for caring how I looked. I had told myself it wouldn’t hurt to try ballet, that it would be stupid not to try it when a brand-new studio had opened on my corner (what were the odds?) in the city I’d lived in so reluctantly for the past three decades.
