"You look like a donkey," says Porsche.
I'm sure I did. It's called a donkey kick, and for good reason. My lower back is arching, my glut and back thigh is burning like nobody's business. I manage 15 is all, then switch sides, and go back for another 10 on either side. Later that evening, I try again, eeking out 5.
Now, a week later, my inner thighs have stopped hurting, and my bum isn't so tight in my jeans. Even Rog noticed.
"You've lost even more weight," he says to me last night.
"No," I told him. I'm still eating the same. "It's the ballet donkey kicks," I say proudly.
As I'm down on the ground, I'm thinking about Veellliaaaahhh, my daughter's Russian instructor, who on the phone, sounded lithe and lean. Her name is probably spelled Velia, but the way she says it is so loooonnnng and exotic, it must be replicated in type to do it justice.
When I arrived, I noted she's a bit more pear-shaped that she was in her prime. The fruitness of her figure didn't prevent her from keeping the girls going like Stalin on the death march, no talking, giggling, or stooped shoulders.
Watching Porsche was nostalgic, since I was kicked out ballet at age 8. In point of fact, the only thing I've ever been kicked out of, and it was all due to my height.
"You will be tall," pronounced the instructor, ending my dreams of pointed shoes and anorexia.
Last week, as I sat in the studio, shivering, listening to one woman chomp her gum with her mouth open (a pet peeve) and talking on the phone to her uncle (another pet peeve) I took to reading the ads on the wall.
Beginning ballet exercises, was one, and 24 ballet exercise videos was another. When I got home, I looked online and, sucker that I am, purchased a DVD set for the New York City Ballet: The Complete Workout, Vol. 1 and 2. I should get it right after I eat that last bit of Pecan pie:)