I Used To Be

Chapter 1

I woke up, throat raw and sore, head pounding. I had no idea what day it was, if it was a school day, a weekend, morning, or afternoon. Before I even looked at the clock, I saw the evidence of my shame everywhere -- an empty, stained pizza box, stray chocolate and peanut butter stains on the bedspread. On the floor was an empty pint of Ben & Jerry's (Chubby Hubby), M&M wrappers (mint, birthday cake, candy corn), Hostess cakes (Twinkies, Zingers, SnoBalls), Chex Mix (Sweet & Salty), and an empty styrofoam Cookout milkshake cup (mint Oreo). My stomach churned, I still tasted the sting of bile at the top of my throat, and I could feel every remaining calorie in my gut.

Three days later.

I'm lucky they even agreed to see me, I thought as I draped my upper body over my extended leg that was stretched over the barre, given that I am a fat, disgusting pig. I weighed 126 pounds and I was 5'4" which is literally 30 pounds overweight for a ballet dancer. This was after purging my body over the past two days of everything that could possibly be inside my stomach or intestines. I figured it would be better to be weak and dizzy than to look as heavy and bloated as I did before my purge and fast, although my efforts were probably the equivalent of putting lipstick on a pig. I was still a pig, and that fact would still be quite obvious to the director of VAB and his wife. I did not actually expect to be accepted into the school at my size. I really didn't know why I was at this audition at all.

At precisely the moment the long arm of the clock reached the top of the hour, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe walked into the studio, with the impeccable posture of two retired elite dancers, and that same air of absolute command of both body and the surrounding space. Mrs. Monroe could not hide the alarm in her expression upon seeing my heft clad in only a standard black leotard and pink tights. But her husband actually smiled at me quite warmly, extending a friendly, "hello," as I scrambled to the center of the studio. When I reached the spot directly in front of them, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, so I curtsied, and then blushed, afraid my ignorance of decorum was already working against my potential place in the company. Mr. Monroe beckoned me towards the table and extended his hand, "Don't be nervous," he said, his tone implying that such a thing would be silly, that he wasn't that important, that this was just another day in the studio. As if. I blushed again, taking his hand, not sure what to say. So I just said, "Okay," at which point I had to stifle a giggle, because in fact my nerves were about to take over my vocal cords apparently.

I was anxious to start dancing, both to get it over with but also because that would involve familiar movements and steps, unlike this little dance I was currently trying to perform for the Monroes. In these instances, that seemed to involve an unspoken code of decorum, I always felt like there were lots of kids out there who had been trained to perform such rituals, who met important adults all the time and who knew exactly how to act in their presence. Unfortunately, I was not one of those kids. The few times I had been in these situations, I always felt clumsy, awkward, like I was suddenly thrust into a foreign country where I didn't know the language or the customs but I was somehow supposed to. It sucked. Just let me dance, please.

I was still standing there, awkwardly leaning across the table, my fingers firmly in the grip of Mr. Monroe's large hand, when I heard the door to the studio open behind me, and just as quickly, slam shut.

"Shit, sorry! I mean . . . shoot . . ." I instinctively turned, my fingers finally and abruptly freed. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen was walking hurriedly towards Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, a bag slung over her shoulder, unzipped, a pair of leggings or warm-ups or something dripping out of it, just as a pair of pointe shoes slid out of their unsecured position hanging on the strap of the bag and clattered loudly to the floor. The woman bent over retrieved them in one swift movement as she continued towards her destination. I looked at the Monroes and the table. There was no third chair. Mrs. Monroe looked like she could roll her eyes at any second and Mr. Monroe looked like he was equally suppressing the urge to giggle. The woman must have noticed there was no place for her to sit, as she stopped, dropped her bag, and started, "Oh . . . I . . ." to which Mr. Monroe rose and smiled.