Believing oneself to be perfect is often the sign of a delusional mind. -Data, to Borg Queen, Star Trek: First Contact

Years ago when my Father announced I walked like a farm-hand and needed some intervention, my Mother promptly signed me up for ballet in my 'blossoming' years. It was a once a week class, (yes, with tights) of stretches and elite forms designed to help me move more like Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco. All my brothers knew was cold. It was mid winter in Illinois and their sister 'couldn't walk'. Well, she could walk. She had seemed to walk fine up until then, until Dad said she wasn't walking like a young lady should. Everyone was self conscious and kind of quiet about this new direction, well yeah, especially me. My brothers and I had always worked like a well oiled machine, two boys and a tom-boy. Except now I walked, apparently, like a farm hand, which confused me, because we lived on one. I mean a farm. So there I was in leotard, extending middle school fingers in gradual steps of beauty, while my brothers were preventing frostbite in theirs, waiting in the car for their sister who 'can't walk'. To survive they warmed their fingers with the car cigarette lighter: coiled circles of ready to use, pop out orange, ringed heat burning like the winter sunset they watched sink behind a country driveway of a rural ballet studio. Bundled boys were not about to sit inside with a bunch of pirouette bent girls. And this went on, practice after practice, once a week winter day after school winter day, until the first recital. I had since plastered my room with prints of ballerinas in various forms of stretch and dance with and without partners. One golden-haired beauty peered into her starlit mirror, pursing candy lipstick lips for her next performance. I had always thought I was going to be a Marine biologist. (I like Killer Whales.) Now trusting my father to know best, I became kin with the 'swans' surrounding me in my room. I was aplomb with my arabesque! The recital for some reason, was at my grade school. Attending in support of my efforts to walk more like a lady, was my aged ginger 3rd grade teacher.  My class was her last before retirement. Mrs. Goodall was a balanced red topped country school smart woman.  She had a way, a kind of common sense that one treasures like a favorite day. It made her as real as the apple pies my mom would bake her, leaving her blonde school desktop sticky beneath the foiled gift. She sat on one of the cold grey metal folding chairs awaiting the recital, with the other parents, siblings and smiles. The class virtuoso stepped lightly into view of the unaligned seating, mismatch of winter coats, squirmy kids, breath holding moms and camera clad dads like she was at the Kirov Theatre in Saint Petersburg, Russia. The swell of the music lifted her ethereal downcast mascara fringed eyelids to a new level of childhood beauty and wonder. A perfect bun of butterscotch hair spun as did her tiny pointed toe shoes, earrings glinting as her tutu broke your heart. Other girls in different levels of grade school growth complimented her beauty and all were a garden for the audience, melting winter snows away. And then I trailed in. I was unusually tall for my age and always had to stand in the back row for class pictures with the boys. Side stage jumbled me in with brunette wild curls, unsuccessfully tamed to a pony tail, ringed and sprouting, escaping sprouts like Jack's beanstalk, & spitting out hairpins along the way. I was a Yeti. Winter returned. Brothers giggled. Parents hushed. I spun and feet flapped flat like a family of beavers weatherproofing their lodge. The music and mood was no longer the soaring score that captured hearts and stole away shallow breaths in family wonder. The tune seemed a tin cup cassette tape recording that crackled like a campfire. The beautiful stage disappeared, and a cold winter gray class room returned. Thankfully, the intuitive ballet instructor was cognizant of my Yeti skills and placed me last to enter and perform my version of ballet just as the song ended. I lined up with the other 'little' girls. The swan child received a bouquet and applause to which she perfectly executed a Pas Marche´. (The graceful walk to center stage to take a curtsy or bow) We dispersed as a troupe to become children again. My brothers hung by the door eager to bolt at the first hint this torture was over. I was freezing in tights to steal a glance as the blue black sunset hit frozen ice spots on the playground outside, hidden earlier by day-lit skies. I knew tomorrow I would be sliding on them during recess, when I was able to wear real clothes again! My dusk dream was interrupted by the Ballet Instructor's congratulations to my Mother that I had graduated! I had completed the goal that was shamefully confided to her on our interview first appointment day. I could officially, in her opinion, walk like a lady. I was thrilled! My grade school teacher standing by my mom's elbow smiled. She had known all along I was not a ballerina. My mom still confused at the Yeti dumping gathered me up, loaded up her boys and we drove home. Later, I packed up all but one of the ballet pictures in my room. A painting that was my Grandmother's remained. I still stand out as 'tall kid in the back row', but now in guitar class. My teacher is frustrated with me when he watches me play. 'You're on the wrong string!' I called my older brother. We laughed. He said: "You're on the wrong branch! Move out a little more towards the end, yeah right there! Right by the little leaf all by itself!" I'm still a Yeti. Frustrating the arts with my dominant left hemisphere. The funny thing is now, the doctor said the 'medicine' I need for muscle and joint pain is:  stretches. Really? Ballet?!? (whew, yoga)  My brother clued me, "And you didn't think it would come back around full circle?" Well it did, Keith! Keep warm with the cigarette lighter, dear brothers. I'm on the wrong string.