Pirou-wet

In a failed attempt to make me more graceful and more social when I was a little girl, my parents enrolled me in a ballet class.

I was so unbelievably shy that even though my older sister was in the class with me, I was scared to talk to any of the other little girls and was especially terrified of the teacher, Mr. Jack. Mr. Jack was what one might now refer to as a "frustrated-and-closeted-homosexual." Back then, I believe we just called him "artistic."

He scared me so much that one day while we were practicing in the gym after school and I had to urinate, I simply could not raise my hand and ask him if I could be excused to use the restroom. I held it as long as I could and then, inevitably, wet my leotard in the middle of class. (My logic here is admittedly a little flawed. In my pea-sized brain, it was less scary and attention-drawing to have a potty accident in his class than ask to use the restroom.) Many of the little girls in my class (including my sister -- always the loyal team player) pointed at me and laughed. After he realized what was going on, Mr. Jack bellowed, "Young Lady! Do you need to use the restroom?" (Which, to this day, strikes me as an odd question. I really wanted to say, "Um...no. I just emptied my bladder on the floor. I really wish you had asked me that five minutes ago, though.")

I was relegated to the back row from that point forward -- during class and for the recital. This marked the end of my (short and humiliating) ballet career.

(Any member of my family would now play straight guy and ask, "how old were you when this happened?" and I would reply "25" and then we'd all laugh heartily. It really never gets old. We're a fairly simple people.)