I am a ballet teacher. On this occasion, I am teaching a small group of six- and seven-year-old beginners.

Student #1: “Miss [My Name], why does ballet only count to eight?”

Me: “I’m not entirely sure. I think it’s because music is usually counted in four, and two sets of four is eight, but I don’t know for certain. The problem is that ballet is really old, so we don’t have many records of why things are the way that they are.”

Student #2: “Wait, how old is ballet?”

Me: “The earliest beginnings of ballet are over 600 years old.”

Student #1: “Woah… That’s even older than Disney Plus!”

Client: “Can you do SEO?”

SEO is Search Engine Optimization.

Me: “Yes.”

Client: “Can you get us a number-one ranking?”

Me: “We have in the past. What keyword phrase do you want to rank for?”

Client: “I want to rank number one for ‘Lady Gaga’.”

Me: “‘Lady Gaga’?”

Client: “Yes, she’s quite popular, and I’m sure there are a lot of searches for her.”

Me: “Yes, she is, but you won’t be able to rank number one for that term.”

Client: “Why not? Didn’t you just say you can get us a number-one ranking?”

Me: “Yes, I did, but it has to be related to your business. Lady Gaga has nothing to do with your children’s dance troupe.”

Client: “The children dance to her songs and listen to them, so we want to be number one for ‘Lady Gaga’.”

When I was three or four years old, I took dance lessons in a class with other kids the same age. There was a window between the dance room and the hallway outside where parents could sit and check in on their kids. My mom usually did that because the classes weren’t too long.

One day in class, I had to use the bathroom, so I asked the teacher for permission. She said I could not. Shortly after I clarified that I really did need to use the bathroom, but she still denied me. She wouldn’t let me take a short and non-disruptive trip out of class, but she did find it appropriate to let me sit and cry on the floor next to my classmates, as she directed me to do while the other kids were dancing.

Soon, my mom looked in the window and saw what was happening, and she was furious. She took me out of the dance room and then chewed out a superior at the dance studio, who was somehow on the side of the dance instructor.

I never went back to that awful dance studio, and soon after this ordeal, we found a better dance studio that let young children use the bathroom on time.

What was ridiculous about this whole experience was that I missed out on dancing much more by being told I could just sit on the floor and cry than if the teacher had just let me use the bathroom. I don’t remember this, but my mom tells me it took a lot of convincing for me to trust that my preschool teachers would actually let me use the bathroom, so apparently, this experience stuck with me.

I did ballet for ten years, from age six to age fifteen. I remember my teachers yelling at my class to fix their movements and postures.

While doing barre work:

Teacher: “Don’t lift your leg too high; you look like a dog going potty.”

During “The Nutcracker” rehearsals:

Teacher: “Cows stomp. Horses stomp. Angels do not stomp.”

While doing arm exercises:

Teacher: “Your arms look like chicken wings. Pretend your arms are like clothing hangers.”

Doing pliés, where you put your heels together and bend your knees:

Teacher: “Pretend that you are a merry-go-round going up and down. You have a glass of water on your head.”

(This happened to my sister who runs a dance studio that also offers aerobics, Zumba, and other workout classes. One of her longtime clients and friends is a model who tends to draw attention to herself due to her oversized breast implants. This happens when my sister is teaching a Tae Bo class which is about half first-timers. Ten minutes before class starts:)

New Girl #1: *points to the model* “Hey, slut, this isn’t the strippercise class. This is for people who actually want to exercise.”

Model: “I know what class this is; I signed up because it compliments my boxing lessons.”

New Girl #2: *sarcastically* “Sure, whatever you say. Just don’t complain if you get tired and can’t keep up; you look like you’re carrying a bit of extra weight.”

(The model just stares at them quietly. According to my sister, variants of this joke have been levied at said model at least a dozen times before.)

Sister: “All right, girls, let’s get to it! First break isn’t for forty-five minutes.”

(Both new girls are absolutely exhausted by break time; neither one of them looks like they can even stand.) 

Model: *feigning worry* “Oh, dear! You seem beat. But how can that possibly be?! I mean, I’m carrying so much more extra weight and I still feel fine.”

(Both girls just glowered at her and tried to get up to finish the class. They lasted about ten minutes into the second half before they finally couldn’t take it and ducked out early.)