Dancing Queen

In between the aches and embarrassment, my adult ballet class became a source of unexpected joy

- Caroline Helbig

“WELCOME TO HELL, LADIES,” he says in an eastern European accent. I grimace as he presses down on my stiff upper back, attempting to coax out an extra millimetre of flexibility. I’m finally ticking adult ballet class off my bucket list, but now I’m wondering what possessed me to do this.

When I was a little girl in the ’60s, I begged my mother to let me take ballet class. I loved the pink tutus, the pretty buns, the dreams of gracefully dancing across the stage like the Swan Princess. She sent me off to figure skating and Brownies, and yet, for some reason that’s still a mystery to me, she wouldn’t budge on ballet lessons.

With the distractions of adolescence and then the demands of adult life, my hopes of taking ballet lessons were put on hold. But every so often, usually while watching an inspired performance of Swan Lake, those little pangs of unfulfilled desire would speak up and say that I should take lessons before it’s too late.

And here I am—more than 50 years after pleading with my mother—finally taking the plunge.

My class in Vancouver is called Absolute Beginner Adult Ballet, and I’m a good 30 years older than the rest of the participants. Our instructor, Mr. C., is trained in classical Russian ballet and has had an illustrious dancing career. He’s an imposing presence with penetrating dark eyes and a penchant for tailored black attire.

My hair’s in a slicked-back bun and I’m wearing second-hand pink ballet slippers. The tutu-wearing window has closed for me.