{ images’ source: d e c o l l a g e } I miss ballet. It was everything to me when I used to take classes at a local dance studio, starting from when I was three. I constantly twirled around on my tippy-toes and refused to take off my [white Minnie Mouse] tights and matching tutu, and imagined performing in The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and its equivalents. As soon as I turned nine/ten, my ballet instructor recommended me for beginner pointe – something I’ve only dreamed of, and always thought of being a day so far away. I begged my mom, but she refused. After all, I wasn’t becoming a dancer, so why ruin my feet and knees? I then quit out of spite. Immature, I know, but somewhat excusable I suppose. I mean I was only ten. I stopped dancing altogether. It would have been the end (and I say this in the least melodramatic way possible), had it not been for a friend who dragged me to try out for my high school’s dance team. Day one of auditions was nerve-wracking; what were fautees? Illusions? Pitch kicks? I almost got cold feet for Day two of the judged tryouts. Almost. But I…