Why I'll never be a ballerina

When I was nine, my mother signed me up for tap, jazz and ballet classes at the local community center. I was so excited to start classes and get my first pink leotard and set of tap shoes. I remember the brown speckled tile floor of the town center, the yellow light that washed the dance room, and the click of my shiny tap shoes. My lessons, however, were short lived, and I never really knew why. One day, later in life, I finally asked my mother why she had stopped taking me. "I could have been a ballerina at Julliard"

"You were more interested in the vending machine than you were in the dancing"

I should have known the answer before even asking. It all came back, begging for quarters during class breaks, running to the dinky, old machine filled with the types of foods forbidden from our kitchen cabinets. The glistening bags of royal blue filled with wise potato chips, the yellow rays emblazoned on the dipsy doodles, all within my grasp, separated only by 35 cents and plexiglass. The eventual sweet reward nibbling on cheeto's, cheese puff by cheese puff. Licking the atomic orange synthetic cheese power from my tiny finger tips. Laughing in the dimly lit girls room at our orange hued tongues. It's in reflecting on these kinds of moments that I realize how much meaning they really hold.

I believe that the very fact that my childhood was particularly lacking in junk food is the reason why I'm not a food snob now. I understand the gravity and significance of a crispy chicken on a sesame seed bun from a drive through eaten hot out of the bag sitting in the car. The crispy chicken meal is a force not to be reckoned with. And that's ok. I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never be a ballerina