I wear glasses. Without them, I’m as blind as a bat. When I first began to dance, my mother bought me one of those elastic bands that attaches to your glasses and holds them tightly to your face. Unattractive but effective. Once I joined the ballet company, I threw out the elastic band because I felt it wasn’t dignified enough to fit my new image of myself as a professional dancer. Working in classes and rehearsals didn’t pose too much of a problem. When the barre exercises were being shown, I would grab my glasses from the floor, hold them to my face, memorize the exercise, throw them down and begin dancing. It was a pretty good system. If I forgot the exercise, I’d either follow the person in front of me or I’d make something up. Center work and rehearsals were more challenging because I had to keep track of where I had last placed my glasses – which I normally didn’t. Having failed to locate my glasses, I would squint at the teacher and try to figure out what he was demonstrating. Then I would fake my way through the exercise and hope that he didn’t look over in my direction. While the second group ran through the exercise, I would nonchalantly walk around the perimeter of the room and look for my glasses. If I didn’t find them on the first promenade, I dropped all pretenses of decorum and got down on my hands and knees and groped around the edges of the room until my hands felt that familiar shape. After a while, the other dancers became aware of my plight. Well – it would have been a little hard to miss. They took pity on me and either pointed me in the right direction or brought them over to me. Despite my inability to see, I never ran into anyone or any object – or at least not while in the studio.
I was cast in a new role – one of the four back-up dancers to the soloist. It was a definite step upwards in my book. I had been given the role because one of the regular dancers was injured. We had only two rehearsals before the performance and I was a bit nervous. Although I had done my understudying well and felt prepared, this was the first chance that I had to prove that I could keep up with the more experienced crowd. I had to be perfect! “You’ll be fine,” said Connie as she passed me, “Just remember to come on when I do.” I nodded eagerly. I watched Connie cross over to the other side of the stage. She waved at me. I waved back. Our movement began and Connie started to walk onto the stage. I smiled confidently and made my entrance. Slowly walking across the stage and grinning at Connie the entire time. Connie came into focus. It wasn’t Connie! It was the soloist and I had forgotten that she started the dance alone. The rest of us weren’t supposed to make an entrance until later. My smile froze. I nodded to the audience pleasantly and grandly walked backwards towards the wing until I was off the stage. Even without my sight, I could see Connie on the other side of the stage, doubled over in laughter. That night, it was suggested that I look into contact lenses.