Five years old in the suburban ghetto of Delta, BC, it was common for me to steal Mommy's lipstick, paint it on myself, and adorn the pursed plastic lips of my unfortunate Barbie collection. Getting dressed in the morning was a battle between Mommy and me, as I was always disappointed with my lack of options and would go through at least five or six costume changes a day.
I regularly paraded my pint-sized posse around, commanding the attention of unsuspecting neighbours with intricately choreographed performances of Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now". Spoons really can make excellent microphones (even in recent years when Nicki and I have had impromptu Mariah Carey concerts in her kitchen).
Catering to my theatrical tendencies, my parents enrolled me in an intensive dance program and a touring choir that fostered my desire to be seen and heard up until the end of high school, at which point they struck me with the hard reality that I would have to suspend my passions and work the drive-thru at MacDonald's so I could put myself through university.
Why did I go to university in the first place? I don't know, peer pressure? It's not like UBC has a great performing arts program. I went because my parents wanted me to amount to something; my boyfriend wanted me to go with him -- there's always a guy involved. My husband snagged me at university; other than meeting him, expanding my circle of friends and learning how to party like a rock star, university didn't prove all that useful.
If only my parents had dreamed a little bigger for me. In all fairness, I can see how a cop and an elementary school teacher might not have understood the innate desire their daughter had to shine brighter than she could in the burbs of Hollywood North. If only I'd dreamed a little bigger for myself.
Now, with the choices I've made, I'm not exactly in the ideal situation to run around the world trying to make it as a professional singer or dancer. I'm Maya's Mommy, and right now, that is my most important role. But every now and then, in the audience at the ballet or watching So You Think You Can Dance, I feel a spark ignite within.
Last night, during this season's first audition round on SYTYCD, I was transfixed. I actually cried during a contemporary piece danced by someone whose love for her craft was tangible in her every movement. Maya, nestled in my arms with her digestif of vanilla soy milk, looked up at me to make sure I wasn't losing it. I reassured her with an animal cracker and thought, "everyone occasionally wonders what might have been; but is it really enough for me just to wonder?"
Bikram would smile slyly at me and impart one of his favourites -- "It's never too late; you're never too old to start from scratch and try again."
At least three years having passed since I was even dropping into a studio for a couple of classes a week, picking up one of my true loves again will be starting from scratch. Any artistic discipline demands tremendous commitment, but so does anything worth having.
My passion is hungry and I think I'm ready to feed it again. It'd be pretty satisfying to dust off the point shoes I have sitting pretty on my nightstand and actually put them back on -- even if it takes a while. If I train hard enough, I could teach, maybe even perform with a group of retirees.
Even when I'm out at a bar, on one of my always fantastic, too few and far between nights, dancing with my nearest and dearest, I start to taste the fulfillment again. Isn't our whole existence about genuine satisfaction? Finding what makes us truly happy and making it as much a part of our lives as possible? That's why I try and infuse even the mundane with as much pleasure as possible. A mocha a day helps; I swear it makes life in Edmonton better; If I can accomplish that with a coffee, I can only imagine the affects of bringing dance back into my life.
But enough about me. I wasn't always this self-involved...no, wait; yes I was. But aren't you the most important person in your life? I hope so.
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