I went to the ballet.
Now before you picture me as cultured and refined, let me clarify: I was there the same way I ended up at half the places I went as a teenager—following my best friend.
That friend was Mary.
Mary is a former dancer.
There was no interpretation, no technique when I joined her dancing in ‘80s nightclubs. But the performing arts center was no nightclub. And the only ones dancing were trained international ballet dancers.
Mary was watching Swan Lake like a trained professional—studying technique, posture, lines, footwork, probably evaluating the precise angle of a toe I didn’t even know existed. All I knew about sickled feet came from Abby Lee Miller yelling on Dance Moms.
Now, I’m a theatre person. I love musicals. I once drove nine hours just to see a Broadway production of Pretty Woman. But ballet has no dialogue, no lyrics. Before the show, I studied the program like it was CliffsNotes and there was about to be a pop quiz. I was ready for Swan Lake.
There’s a girl.
There’s a prince.
There’s a curse.
There’s a bad girl trying to ruin everything.
That’s about as far as my knowledge went.
With my proverbial No. 2 pencil in hand, I leaned in, ready to ace the art of dissecting the ballet.
Five minutes later, I was lost.
Ten minutes in, I was creating my own plot.
While Mary was lost in a world of arabesques and enchanted lakes, I was wondering which ballerina looked like she might "Tonya Harding" the lead if given the opportunity.
And let’s talk about the costumes….
There were so many… ahem… packages on display, I thought it was Christmas at Rockefeller Center.
I sneak a peek at Mary. She is thriving.
I realize my "can’t sleep" playlist is filled with Tchaikovsky. My eyes are starting to close.
We’re clapping again. I roll my eyes. Did Sandy and Danny run to the end of the stage and take their bows after Summer Lovin’? Did the show stop while the orphans curtsied after It’s a Hard-Knock Life? What is happening here?
No, really—what is happening? Are we sad? Should I look sad? The kid in front of me has given up too—he’s slumped over in his seat while his mother glares at him.
Same, kid, same.
Odette and Siegfried do get their happily ever after in this version—but I’m still not sure if the curse was broken before or after their deaths.
I’m also not sure if Mary will ever again invite me to the ballet.
And honestly, I’m not sure I’d understand it any better if she did.
—Jeanni Ritchie
Jeanni Ritchie is a travel writer and lifestyle journalist from Central Louisiana. When she’s not road trippin’ across the country with her stuffed bear, she can be found eating pizza, catching a musical, or hard at work… in that order.