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.)

(I teach ballet. I frequently tell my students that no one is allowed to get hurt. This is mostly a joke, but I do bring it up when warning them against certain movements, because I know that those movements are more likely to cause injury. One week, I notice one of my students during an exercise.)

Me: “[Student], you’re making faces I don’t like. Are you all right?”

Student: “I’m fine, Miss [My Name].”

(I let the matter drop. The next week, she comes in with an ankle brace. I ask her what happened.)

Student: “So… you remember last week when you said I was making faces and I told you I was fine? I guess I wasn’t as fine as I thought.”

(She takes things easy for the next few weeks. Things are improving, but I don’t want her to push herself and make it worse. A few weeks later, she comes up to me before class.)

Student: “Miss [My Name], my ankle is all better!”

(This is not quite true, as I can see that she still has the brace on, but she has it under her tights instead of over so it isn’t as obvious. Then she pulls her arm out from behind her back, showing me that it is encased in a bright pink cast.)

Student: “Unfortunately…”

(I probably gave her every bit of the reaction she was hoping for, as I playfully scolded her and told her I was going to have to wrap her in bubble wrap if she didn’t start being careful.)

(I teach ballet. At this class, I have been talking to my class about the importance of being “high on your leg”: lengthening your hip joints so that your legs can easily move in and out.)

Me: “… but if you’re sinking down in your hip, it will be a lot harder to move your legs.” *I demonstrate* “So you want to make sure that you are always high.”

(A student snickers, and I realize what I’ve just said.)

Me: “On your leg! High on your leg! DO NOT come into my class high on drugs!”

(We all had a good laugh at that one. It’s now a running joke:)

Me: “What is my rule?”

Class: “Be high, but don’t be high!”