After what must have been one of my most hectic Saturdays (a wedding lunch, a religious prayer in the afternoon and a formal evening dinner which I was Mom’s escort. I was also Mom’s driver for the day), I was planning for a laid-back Sunday. You know, the kind of Sunday where I would do nothing but eat and sleep. Given that it was also the last Sunday before the start of Ramadhan and Sunday night would mean the beginning of 30 nights of terawih prayers (Insya Allah), the ticking minutes and hours of the day were indeed precious.
Well, I’ve to say the plan started out quite well. I woke up around 10-ish and since I’ve done my laundry as well as the bulk of my ironing the day before, I felt quite relieved. Yes, I’m a bit of Monica (from Friends. Not Lewinsky) when it comes to house chores. Anyway, it was 11 a.m. after I was done with a quick shower and ironed a few more blouses. Mom was already in the kitchen reheating the briyani leftovers for brunch and I thought I was set for a lazy Sunday. But it was here when Mom reminded me of a meet she had with a former teacher of mine a few days ago. Mom persuaded me to call my former teacher and despite my apprehension, I was soon on the phone with my former teacher.
The call was short, more of taking up from where we had left off. Since I last met my former teacher when I was in Standard 6, we had quite a bit of catching up to do. Obviously, she basically knows the 101 of my life since then, thanks to my parents who must have filled her in with the must-know essentials. I didn’t get to ask her much about her life though, especially when she informed me that she’s currently in Singapore! On my part, I felt I could wait to ask her personally if that means saving my phone bills from reaching the ceiling! But before we ended the call amidst promises to meet up pretty soon, she asked me to drive to Taipan before 11.30 a.m. The clock on the wall was already showing 11.20.
Lunch was regrettably an abrupt event, with mere spoonfuls of briyani rice. With a barely full stomach, I was on the road.
I arrived at my teacher’s place a little over 11.30. Call me silly but despite my teacher’s absence, I could feel the trepidation as I walk up the two flight of stairs. It was strangely a case of my 27 year-old self disappearing and replaced by a tiny (perhaps some of you would say ‘tinier’) long-haired girl of 12 years old. As I made my entrance, I really felt time did not pass and I was sucked into my past. It was no longer 2011 but somewhere prior to 1994.
For the first time in 15 years, I finally returned to that once-familiar surroundings. With walls lined with full-length mirrors, brown wooden flooring and wooden bars where I used to hold while doing pliés, I was definitely back in the ballet studio. As I stared at my image, the childhood memory of wearing leotard, soft pink leggings with ribbon-strapped ballet shoes and long hair that’s neatly tied in a bun came for a fleeting moment. But the vision was only briefly for it soon made way into my present, me with short hair and casually dressed in jeans and tees. And in the place of my former ballet friends who were of the same age as I was, were three other girls who must not have been an inch more than 14 years old.
The male instructor was not surprised to see me there. Without much ado and no introduction, I was asked to join the three girls as they move about in the studio. One of them was wearing strappy sandals while the other two were barefooted like me. I tried to follow their steps but coming in at the end of a cha-cha-cha lesson was sheer bad timing. I was just moving my legs, trying to coordinate them to imitate what I see with scant regard to what is right and left. Well, it was to my enormous relief when the instructor said that he will teach us how to dance the Samba.
That relief was short-lived. The images I had of Samba from movies were exciting. Dancers would be dancing along to the infectious rhythm and enjoying the time of their lives. Well, time for a reality check. In the one hour that followed, all I could feel was sweat trickling down my spine as we tried to follow the instructor’s moves. The excitement was left forgotten as my befuddled mind tries to remember the different sets of steps. There was the infectious song all right but as the tune was stopped time and time again when we commit errors, the song became something of a broken record. The hour ended with the instructor asking us to practice those steps before we return the following weekend.
So that was how I spent my Sunday afternoon (and how I will spend the rest of my Sunday afternoons in the near future) with aching limbs. In case you’re not able to understand what I’ve written thus far, let me put it to you gently. I’ve begun attending social dance classes, believe it or not. I figured it’s much better than gym and I still get to lose some weight, fingers crossed. And if there’s any social function which may require a spot of dancing, then I may not be that hopeless a case. But then again, it takes two to tango. So I may have to continue looking for the other half who wouldn’t think a request for Waltz as a craving for ice-cream!
Well, I’ve to say the plan started out quite well. I woke up around 10-ish and since I’ve done my laundry as well as the bulk of my ironing the day before, I felt quite relieved. Yes, I’m a bit of Monica (from Friends. Not Lewinsky) when it comes to house chores. Anyway, it was 11 a.m. after I was done with a quick shower and ironed a few more blouses. Mom was already in the kitchen reheating the briyani leftovers for brunch and I thought I was set for a lazy Sunday. But it was here when Mom reminded me of a meet she had with a former teacher of mine a few days ago. Mom persuaded me to call my former teacher and despite my apprehension, I was soon on the phone with my former teacher.
The call was short, more of taking up from where we had left off. Since I last met my former teacher when I was in Standard 6, we had quite a bit of catching up to do. Obviously, she basically knows the 101 of my life since then, thanks to my parents who must have filled her in with the must-know essentials. I didn’t get to ask her much about her life though, especially when she informed me that she’s currently in Singapore! On my part, I felt I could wait to ask her personally if that means saving my phone bills from reaching the ceiling! But before we ended the call amidst promises to meet up pretty soon, she asked me to drive to Taipan before 11.30 a.m. The clock on the wall was already showing 11.20.
Lunch was regrettably an abrupt event, with mere spoonfuls of briyani rice. With a barely full stomach, I was on the road.
I arrived at my teacher’s place a little over 11.30. Call me silly but despite my teacher’s absence, I could feel the trepidation as I walk up the two flight of stairs. It was strangely a case of my 27 year-old self disappearing and replaced by a tiny (perhaps some of you would say ‘tinier’) long-haired girl of 12 years old. As I made my entrance, I really felt time did not pass and I was sucked into my past. It was no longer 2011 but somewhere prior to 1994.
For the first time in 15 years, I finally returned to that once-familiar surroundings. With walls lined with full-length mirrors, brown wooden flooring and wooden bars where I used to hold while doing pliés, I was definitely back in the ballet studio. As I stared at my image, the childhood memory of wearing leotard, soft pink leggings with ribbon-strapped ballet shoes and long hair that’s neatly tied in a bun came for a fleeting moment. But the vision was only briefly for it soon made way into my present, me with short hair and casually dressed in jeans and tees. And in the place of my former ballet friends who were of the same age as I was, were three other girls who must not have been an inch more than 14 years old.
The male instructor was not surprised to see me there. Without much ado and no introduction, I was asked to join the three girls as they move about in the studio. One of them was wearing strappy sandals while the other two were barefooted like me. I tried to follow their steps but coming in at the end of a cha-cha-cha lesson was sheer bad timing. I was just moving my legs, trying to coordinate them to imitate what I see with scant regard to what is right and left. Well, it was to my enormous relief when the instructor said that he will teach us how to dance the Samba.
That relief was short-lived. The images I had of Samba from movies were exciting. Dancers would be dancing along to the infectious rhythm and enjoying the time of their lives. Well, time for a reality check. In the one hour that followed, all I could feel was sweat trickling down my spine as we tried to follow the instructor’s moves. The excitement was left forgotten as my befuddled mind tries to remember the different sets of steps. There was the infectious song all right but as the tune was stopped time and time again when we commit errors, the song became something of a broken record. The hour ended with the instructor asking us to practice those steps before we return the following weekend.
So that was how I spent my Sunday afternoon (and how I will spend the rest of my Sunday afternoons in the near future) with aching limbs. In case you’re not able to understand what I’ve written thus far, let me put it to you gently. I’ve begun attending social dance classes, believe it or not. I figured it’s much better than gym and I still get to lose some weight, fingers crossed. And if there’s any social function which may require a spot of dancing, then I may not be that hopeless a case. But then again, it takes two to tango. So I may have to continue looking for the other half who wouldn’t think a request for Waltz as a craving for ice-cream!
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