The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir Read Free Page A

she will say is that she doesn’t want me to feel deprived of food; that feeling deprived could cause me to go overboard eating the wrong thing. She says it’s not okay to eat a whole cake—as if I don’t know that—but it’s all right to have a little piece of cake. What is she talking about? I’m a dancer. I’m disciplined. I wouldn’t eat a bite of cake if I’m not supposed to. Anyway, I don’t eat cake. Period.
    I hate this doctor. She’s talking to me as if I’m a child or an idiot or both. I don’t trust her. She has no idea whom she’s dealing with. She doesn’t know me. I’m in her office no more than fifteen minutes, and I’m so turned off by her condescending attitude that I don’t even bother to make another appointment.
    Finally, I get back to the theater. Now I can focus on the ballet I’m dancing tonight, Balanchine’s Piano Concerto No. 2. For dancers in the corps it’s one of the most demanding ballets. Even the strongest corps dancers have problems getting through it.
    The section that worries me most comes in the third movement. It’s tired me so much in rehearsal that I’ve wanted to run off stage and fall to the ground in an exhausted heap. Instead, I have to execute one of the most difficult and controlled sequences of steps. How I am going to manage it, especially now? Losing limbs…. going blind…I hate that doctor’s voice. I want it out of my head.
    As terrified as I am to dance tonight, I need the stage right now. Onstage, I feel alive. I feel safe. What happens onstage isn’t real, of course, but it’s where I can enact, experience and connect to the grandest human emotions, from exultation to despair. In that sense, being onstage often feels more real and immediate than life.
    There are just twenty minutes until the performance, and I have to warm up my muscles. But the more I try to get warm, the colder and clammier I feel. Backstage, I put resin on the heels of my tights and the heels of my pointe shoes so they won’t slip off. Next to the resin box there’s a big bucket of water. I’ve dipped my heels in this water hundreds of times to keep my shoes from coming off. Now I can’t. The water’s too cold. I’m too cold.
    I’ve got to calm down.
    I sit in a corner and, as dancers do before a performance, take a few minutes to sew my toe shoe ribbons together so they don’t unravel. The wardrobe mistress helps me hook up my costume. I look in the mirror to make sure the picture is complete: costume, shoes, hair, makeup.
    â€œDancers, the call is onstage,” says the stage manager, his voice booming through the loudspeaker. Oh, no. I have to pee! How is this possible? I went to the bathroom less than half an hour ago. But I have to go again. And I really have to, because when you need to pee there’s no way you can dance for thirty-five minutes.
    I have just a few minutes until the overture starts. I race to the bathroom closest to the stage followed by the wardrobe lady, who has to unhook my entire costume and then hook it all back up again.
    Thank God the overture for Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 2 is long. The orchestra will play for several minutes before the curtain is raised. I’m back onstage, going over the sequence that has me so worried. I do it over and over, reminding myself to hold my stomach tight. The overture becomes louder, stronger, fiercer.
    Three more minutes until the curtain goes up. I take my place. I love dancing to Tchaikovsky’s music. It’s passionate and bold. It always awakens my deepest feelings.
    Suddenly, I begin to shake. To my horror, I start to cry. I try to stop, but I can’t. I hate public displays of emotion. I don’t cry easily, but I can’t help crying now. One of the male dancers hurries over and puts his arm around me. He asks what’s wrong. I’m sobbing