The door snapped shut quietly behind me as I entered my dressing room. I had barely glanced in my light-studded mirror before setting my bag down on the vanity table top. I slipped my pumps off my feet and stared, observing the tools of my trade like I had never seen them before. And I hadn’t – not really.
Every time I had looked at my feet, all I had looked for were signs that my toenails needed to be filed down or if the tape on my toes was peeling. I had not seen the scars of broken nails and blisters. I had not seen the twisted formation of my bones or the new blisters that was forming on top of old calluses. I had not seen the purple bruises, the splitting skin, the bulge of my ankle.
All I had seen was feet.
A discomfort settled in my stomach, silencing the slight tingle of nerves that only opening night could bring. I had done plenty of these before, but this time was my last.
I tried to settled into a routine of normalcy, sliding on my white stockings to cover my feet. I laced up my shoes, powdered my face, fluffed my tutu, adorned my hair with feathers. I did it all with a sense of numbness, my instincts leading my actions rather than my thoughts.
A knock echoed against my door as the stage manager came to call the five minute warning. I stared at my pale, painted face, wondering if I should even go on. Surely it would be better to end with a lifetime of performances instead of just one?
I had not initially known this was going to be my last performance, of course, my last season. I had simply won the role, as I had with all the others before this one. I did not assume anything beyond the applause, not until the company director asked to see me after auditions.
I was getting too old, he said, too much like a waning moon compared to the newer, younger girls they had just received in the company from the dance academy. Better to bow out now with grace, rather than stumble along behind them. I had nodded, accepting his recommendation, before I threw up in the bathroom. But you can’t purge age.
I had accepted the position to dance once more.
Now, however, I was not so sure. Ballet had been my life – my dream – for thirty years. What do you do when your dream ends?
The stage manager knocked again and I stood, still unsure of what to do. I was the prima ballerina – proud and graceful and beautiful. I could not ask for my understudy without an injury. So I followed him out of my dressing room, letting him lead me through the hallways filled with nervous, twittering girls and silent, stoic men. Up the stairs, backstage, where I waited for my cue.
The dancers that passed me wished me luck and I nodded, taking it gracefully. After all, I knew what they were really thinking.
It’s her last show.
It’s her last opening night.
Her last dream.
I looked down at my feet and saw... feet. Covered by leather, cotton and satin, but still feet. They had led me here through thirty years of dancing.
I was the prima ballerina, the star. I was ending my career by performing the ballet that had started it. I had chosen this thirty long years ago.
Suddenly, I felt no pain, no pressure, no anxiety. I felt no sadness. I only felt the feeling of the end.
My music began to play. I closed my eyes. This was the dream my feet had led me to.
I opened my eyes, took a deep breath and stepped into the spotlight.