I completed my three week dance intensive with a really excellent performance last night. Other than a cast mate ripping the seat of his jeans in the middle of the piece (which nobody noticed but him), the show went well. I even managed to sneak in and watch the second act with Josh and a few friends.

Afterward we went to Bill’s Off Broadway and ate gi-normous slices of pizza–we’re talking height not width. This pizza was covered with the fattest layer of cheese I’ve ever seen, it sort of smothered the toppings underneath and required a fork and a knife to consume.

I had hoped and expected to have some sort of body transformation…something akin to when I was in college and slowly shaping up enough for people to notice. I envisioned my clothes hanging off me, my rings feeling loose, and my stomach to no longer stick out after eating a big meal. None of this happened. I didn’t really notice anything different, or anything I could diferentiate from before. No six pack showed up and I realized that my bottom ribs have always sort of stuck out.
Granted, I was still eating the occasional slice of pizza and I think I ate a scoop of ice cream every day…so it’s not like I was starving myself during the process. I suppose if I had eaten nothing but salad and water for three weeks I would be smaller but I would definitely not had the energy. I craved protein like crazy–even breaking my cardinal “no fast food” rule and purchasing three KFC chicken strips before class. After the first week I burned out on Luna bars, so I bought all this trail mix because after two hours of class I needed to amp up for two more hours of rehearsal. In typical form I found myself nibbling on the good stuff–dried fruit, chocolate chips, M&M’s, almonds–and totally leaving the peanuts behind. Now I’m stuck with a few bags of nothing but peanuts and a few stray almonds and dried cranberries.

Due to the insufferable heat during the second week, I realized that there is something vaguely satisfying but extremely gross about sweating profusely. When I was in a ballet company as a teen we used to have “leotard sweat contests’ to see who had the most interesting sweat stain on their clothing–imagine the infamous ink blot test. I couldn’t even compete because I always prided myself on sweating minimally, (although looking back it could’ve been my lack of drive, hence the absence of any sort of professional career). Of course, this all changes when dancing in one hundred degree heat in a poorly ventilated studio with several dozen sweaty bodies. We hungrily stood in front of the two measly fans they placed near the tiny open windows. We made huge efforts not to pass out or vomit towards the end of four solid hours of cardiovascular hell. (Our choreographer’s one year old daughter actually threw up all over the studio floor when she came to visit on a particularly sweltering day). You can imagine our relief when the third and final week was met with cooling temperatures.