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There are no half measures in childhood. Everything is cataclysmic. For me, this extreme expression took many forms, but none so painful as the year I decided to dress like a ballerina. All the freaking time.
Not at a cute age, either. This was long after the age of three, when I would have looked totally adorbs in a tiny pink leotard, ballet shoes, and a tutu dusted with chocolaty fingerprints that could either be a dancer’s skirt or a princess dress depending on what struck me over my Wheatena that morning.
No, I was the hoary age of ten when I decided I wanted to dress like a prima ballerina. I wanted people to know that I was serious, not about ballet necessarily, but about art. Somehow I had decided that the best way to showcase my seriousness was to wear a ballerina outfit at all times, and to all places.
(D)espite the total impracticality of this concept, I could not be swayed. I was hell-bent on my own slow and very soft destruction.Read More