The American Spectator

Then I peered at Anna in front of the room. Her legs were extended to 3:45. I glanced up at mine: ten minutes to two.

“Now legs together!”

I brought mine together.

“Now back apart … see if you can go further.”

I was still at ten to two: Anna was now at 4:40.

As we continued our floor work, straightening and rounding, coiling and relaxing, I came to realize that she was boneless, a cross between a woodland sprite and a gumby. She was doing things with her body that I couldn’t have done if I’d been able to step out of my skeleton and twist from the outside. Still, Anna managed an occasional smile in my direction. I was pleased, too, that none of the other students seemed to notice how awkward I felt. They were too focused on keeping up with Anna’s instructions.

AFTER SEVERAL MORE MINUTES on the mats, Anna told us to stand up and catch our breaths. When I glimpsed myself in the mirror, what a change I saw! I had sweated through the back and sides of my T-shirt, and my hair was soaked into ringlets that lined the rim of the bandanna.

The woman next to me whispered, “Good workout.”

“Is it over?”

She laughed softly.

“Feet in first position!” Anna called.

That, I knew I how to do: knees straight, heels together, toes turned out to 180 degrees. Anna nodded in approval as I teetered for an instant, then steadied myself.

“Now, demi-plié …”

As the words left her mouth, Anna sank in a perfect line towards the floor, her feet still opposed, her heels still together, her thighs and calves diamonding out, her arms billowing at her sides; a second later, she rose again to her full height, her knees straightening, her arms rolling upwards at the same pace as her torso. The movement was breathtaking in its simplicity and grace. I watched her do another, then, on her third call, attempted my first demi-plié.

“Good!’ she said.