I don't know what I want to do, and so I'm doing everything.

If writing is my one-and-only, then for the past three weeks, I've been having a torrid affair. I'm not even trying to hide it; once a week at midday, with my column filed and schedule safely cleared, I throw on sweats, skip out of the apartment, and travel to midtown west for an hour or so of silk-swaddled, airborne acrobatics that leave my muscles singing in the rain.

You've probably seen aerial silks performers at the circus or Cirque-de-something-or-other, lithe and lean and suspended by nothing but pure brute strength and artfully-wrapped fabric around a hip or ankle.



Suffice to say that my version of the practice isn't quite so elegant. Or airborne. I lack the upper-body strength to hold myself up and get tied in, and so instead, there's a lot of sweating, grunting, and giggling about my insufficiently-muscled noodle-arms from just a few feet above the floor -- all while the more-experienced class members look down on me (no literally, down, because they are fifteen feet in the air) and roll their eyes while simultaneously rocketing themselves skyward using only one toe.

(Note: Enjoy it while it lasts, you smugly superior twats. Because one day, I'm going to be better at this -- and then, I will gaily ascend the silk, gracefully brace my ankle in a perfectly-executed foot lock, and use my remaining foot to kick you in the teeth.)

Still, despite my novice status, I'm in love. Partly, it's that when you start from rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up -- and every extra inch stretched or new move learned feels like a coup. So much of adulthood involves savoring the small victories; the leaps-and-bounds accomplishment of learning something completely new is exhilarating. But more than that, it's the rediscovery of an old friend in my body, which used to do a lot more than just carry me from place to place. I stopped taking ballet seriously around the time that puberty assigned me a pair of child-bearing hips, stopped dancing altogether when the absence of free-and-easy college classes made it too inconvenient. But the extensions and long lines, the feel of bare feet on marley flooring, and the old dream of a life in motion... it's still there, if a little dusty.

Seven years ago, I briefly debated attending circus school post-college in lieu of a job-job; a lovely gentleman from the admissions office called me to chat, and asked what I was considering as a specialization.

"Contortion," I said.
"That's totally doable," he said, sounding genuinely thrilled, and then asked, "How's your pain threshold?"

I didn't end up at circus school, of course, but I've since thought, many times, that more prospective employers should ask that question.

Now, I feel like I'm looking back through time at my 21 year-old self and waving. Hello, I haven't forgotten you!

And don't worry -- I know it looks bad right now, but we're going to get that split back.