I went to the ballet on Saturday night. (Yep, I’m so cultured and classy, I know.)
My girlfriend and I treated ourselves to the spectacular Don Quixote, a magical performance where ballerinas pirouetted on vine-covered swings and pulled off effortless, leg-should-definitely-be-breaking extensions in front of an audience both familiar—and in the case of Yours Truly—unfamiliar with the graceful dance form.
And while the ballet was truly fucking phenomenal (one of the main dancers even looked like Chuck Bass off Gossip Girl) I was—for want for a better word—a bit suspicious of the whole thing. Surely these incredible creatures, elegantly frolicking about on the tips of their impeccably pointed toes, weren’t actually human?
Perhaps I was far too fascinated with the oh-dear-God-how-perfect! masculine legs and great arse of the Chuck Bass lookalike (seriously he was wearing white tights: how could I not be overwhelmed) so much so that I was forced to wonder: how the hell do such flawless people exist in the same world as me?
Because, let’s be honest, the only thing currently flawless in my life is Elizabeth Arden—I call her ‘Lizy’ for short; such a good woman needs a nickname—but she’s my fucking foundation, for God’s sake (she’s Flawless Finish in natural beige, FYI).
So naturally (see what I did there), I was a tad distrustful of these beautiful ballerinas who clearly came into this world out of God’s own cunt. Yep, they were more like angels than humans … the bitches.
I mean: even in the interval my girlfriend and I were so obviously awkward, not-quite-killing-it divas (so unlike the celestial beings we’d just gawked at moments earlier).
Georgia (la girlf), “Hi, can we just get two soy lattes, please?”
Girl behind snack bar, looking like we’d just asked for Chuck’s home address, “Ah, you do know we only have instant …”
Right. Sure. Of course every non-diva knows you can’t whip up actual coffee in a twenty-minute break for potentially every theatregoer, least of all cater for annoying requirements like soymilk. Fuck.
Not to mention I stammered like a blundering bitch afterwards, “Ahh, a black coffee for me and ahh…ahh…” Graceful: ahh, nah.
So let me just spit out what I’m trying to say here: the ballet was so bloody brilliant it highlighted just how gawky and inept I am in everyday life. In contrast to the ballet’s nonchalant grace, my life is pretty much a mess of graceless, flat-footed poses. And watching a perfect performance made my imperfect past seem oh-so-much worse.
Take, for example, the time I glassed myself. Yep, it happened. People drop their drinks all the time in clubs, no big deal. And for that matter, many drunken bitches fall down stairs—we’ve seen that countless times darling (it’s always heinous isn’t it?). Well, I dropped my drink while falling down the stairs, landed headfirst on the broken mess of glass and vodka-water, and ended up in emergency after successfully ‘glassing myself’. I may or may not have had blood pouring down my neck while shrieking, ‘Fuck, I hope no one saw me do that!’ to my BFF who fabulously replied, ‘No, thank God, but you are bleeding everywhere darls.’
Or there’s the time I nearly died from a tampon. Like, literally. It is much too heinous and horrific to go into further detail darling, but let me say this: that shit is anything but goddamn ideal.
Or, on a much less ghastly scale, I guess I could mention the time the end of a cotton tip (a fucking cotton tip—the cotton–wool stick thingamajig one uses to clean their ears) became wedged INSIDE my goddamn ear. Yes, I was temporarily deaf, freaking-the-fuck-out and praying to God that my sister wouldn’t cause permanent damage as she shoved metal tweezers inside my ear cavity to extract the fucker out. Composure? Ahh, nah.
Actually, speaking of tweezers, I guess there is also the time a fake eyelash (of course) decided to be a slut and thrust itself underneath my eyelid. Again, I shall spare you the details, but in five words: doctor, metal tweezers, open eyeball. Yep: the only thing perfectly polished was the disinfected tweezers.
Not to mention, I once tried to do the ‘worm’—as in: the dance move—well, let’s just say it was more like the ‘slug’ … the ‘dead slug’ (someone could have told me it required more than just throwing yourself on the ground, seriously). Now THAT is a position even a ballerina wouldn’t be able to perfect. (It was truly tragic: I was laying on the dance floor, winded, pride less, and in a lot of pain.)
I guess it reminds me though, of the time I threw my clutch (purse-meets-bag) across (and over) the dance floor while mid-fist pumping in la club. Yep: also neither elegant nor poised. (I did get my clutch back, in case you were wondering: the next day, when another girlfriend ‘kept it safe for me’ after witnessing the situation and assessing that Yours Truly hadn’t even realised her valuables were missing, least of all that she had literally thrown them away.)
I suppose the only time I can somewhat relate to being a ballerina was when I walked into a ‘vintage store’, which turned out to be a Satan-worshiping, gothic storeroom (I’m not kidding). Yep: the Satan-worshiping, devil-looking ‘employees’ provided excellent, one-on-one customer service to Yours Truly. This may or may not have included questionable suggestions to ‘try on’ a red-velvet corset and demonstrate the said corset in a ‘cat-walking display’, purely for the amusement of the ‘staff’. I suppose ballerinas wear corsets too, though … so it’s not that bad?
I’m not even going to mention the time I literally attempted a pirouette—let’s just say it did NOT look like the ones in Don Quixote. (Picture the complete opposite; add bruises, a near-broken-ankle and you might be able to see it.)
So I suppose the ballet was beautiful, and graceful, and perfect—and all of the other flawless describing words in the whole fucking dictionary—but I wish that prior to the display of perfection, I had of received this advice:
Remember, especially when watching the Chucks and Cinderellas of the world perform: they are not human. Well they are (I think), but they’re not like the rest of us. They might do shit spectacularly; but they also trained their perfectly tight arses off to do it. And although one might—hypothetically, of course—be inclined to feel jealous at such grace, one must always remain flat-footed to the ground. Stay grounded, darling—remember: it is not normal behaviour to pirouette on vine-covered swings.
So I leave you with this: when being a cultured, classy ballet-attending diva, do not (under any circumstances) compare yourself to the dancers. Take my word for it: your pride will end up ashamedly crying in the corner of the auditorium; you may end up psychologically fucked; or, worst of all, you could end up retelling some of your most humiliating, graceless experiences. And NONE of these said situations are particularly ideal.
You are free to perve on the dancer with the great arse though.
And for God’s sake don’t order a soy latte … they only do instant, darling.
You’re welcome. Xxxx
PS: If you want any more info on Lizy’s Flawless Finish foundation, don’t hesitate to ask—she makes any ol’ hag look as beautiful as a ballerina!
PSS: Forget the aforementioned comment. I don’t want everyone’s skin to look as flawless as mine. If anyone asks, it’s natural, darling.