More Than a Job
    
As the subway screeches to a halt, you move to the front of the car to be one of the first out. The doors slide open, and you start sprinting across the station to stairs that lead to street level. Running, you take them two at a time, your bag slapping against your side. You weave through crowded streets, muttering apologies every time you bump into someone.

Rounding the corner, you see the theater towering above every other building on the block. You bound up the marble stairs, causing finely dressed theatergoers to shake their heads in disgust. You slip inside the heavy oak doors and ignore the famous lobby, full of rich marble and ornate, vaulted ceilings. You dash through a door leading backstage and into a dressing room, panting.

“You’ll always be in a rush!”

In the next ten minutes, you change from a young woman into an elegant, otherworldly creature. You switch your worn T-shirt and jeans for a bejeweled costume, tights, and a feathery tutu. Your worn sneakers are replaced with satin-covered pointe shoes that fit over your feet like a second skin. Finally, you place your unruly hair in a neat bun.

“The shoes and costumes you’ll have to wear are painful and ridiculous.”

You walk out of the shared dressing room and navigate the labyrinth of passages, passing stage managers and choreographers. You have less than a minute until curtain. You break into an ungainly run in your pointe shoes, every eye on you as you race down the halls. You run onto the stage and get into position.

“You’ll never have a moment by yourself!”

The curtains open, the spotlight shines down. You rise en pointe, lifting yourself up until all your weight is on your toes. Music begins, a soft violin guiding you through the choreography. You think back to the years spent training for this, remembering what people have said when you announced you aspired to be a professional dancer.

“Ballet is so much more than a job!”

They were right. For you, dance is more than a job. It’s home.