My mom used to tell me and everyone that I was a dancer before I could walk, which I thought was precious until I realized she sniped it from an ABBA song. It may have been stolen but it was true: I came out grooving and my parents never thought twice about putting my lil crippled toddler self in ballet classes. One of my favorite teachers, Miss Kathy, was grueling and hilarious and my toes often bled after her classes but I loved it. She had a rule: whatever had happened up until class was left at the door. It wasn't allowed in the studio space because we were there to do one thing and one thing only: dance. If we were distracted or out of balance she'd literally force us to stand in the door space and shake it off, allowing us to only return to the barre after it was let go and I think that's beautiful and profound. To this day I cannot enter a ballet studio with baggage. For the 90 minutes I'm in there I'm more free than John Mayer is falling. When all is said and done I'm welcome to pick up my issues, but who wants to do that amirite? Yesterday was the fuckin shits but if I was gonna find out the timing was low key perfect because between Broga, boot camp, teaching classes, taking classes, barre training and life I'm going to be in a studio for 12 hours with people I adore this weekend. Ooooofdah yes.