If you’re a dancer, you’ll never stop dancing.

As soon as you start, you start wanting to get better.  You’ll point your toes, and you’ll tap under your desk and chassé down the halls, whatever.  You’ll crunch and press and stretch until you’re up to it, and you’ll have to try really really hard to not strangle those jocks who insist that dancers aren’t athletes.  We do them one better- athletes and artists.

It’s okay; we all know that they wouldn’t last an hour in a swing class.  You just know that they would be all hamhanded, incompetent leaders, pathetically shoving some poor girl’s lower back hither and thither.

But if you love it, it follows you everywhere.  You’ll always be conscious of how you sit, how you stand, how your thumbs look.  When you’re walking your dog, you’ll look down and realize that you’re  walking in three against the two of the pavement (music freaks, you know you’ve done that).  You’ll pull your spine up like there’s a string running from your head (heard it; haven’t you), you’ll pull your navel to your spine (heard it; haven’t you), and you’ll walk toeheel down the street.

And I love it.