{"version":"1.0","provider_name":"Soft Sensibilities","provider_url":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog","author_name":"Kimberly","author_url":"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/author\/kimberlypearl-92gmail-com\/","title":"A Love Letter to Dance &#8226; Soft Sensibilities","type":"rich","width":600,"height":338,"html":"<blockquote class=\"wp-embedded-content\" data-secret=\"gDgr4QpI0X\"><a href=\"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/body-language\/\">A Love Letter to Dance<\/a><\/blockquote><iframe sandbox=\"allow-scripts\" security=\"restricted\" src=\"https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/body-language\/embed\/#?secret=gDgr4QpI0X\" width=\"600\" height=\"338\" title=\"&#8220;A Love Letter to Dance&#8221; &#8212; Soft Sensibilities\" data-secret=\"gDgr4QpI0X\" frameborder=\"0\" marginwidth=\"0\" marginheight=\"0\" scrolling=\"no\" class=\"wp-embedded-content\"><\/iframe><script type=\"text\/javascript\">\n\/* <![CDATA[ *\/\n\/*! This file is auto-generated *\/\n!function(d,l){\"use strict\";l.querySelector&&d.addEventListener&&\"undefined\"!=typeof URL&&(d.wp=d.wp||{},d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage||(d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if((t||t.secret||t.message||t.value)&&!\/[^a-zA-Z0-9]\/.test(t.secret)){for(var s,r,n,a=l.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret=\"'+t.secret+'\"]'),o=l.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret=\"'+t.secret+'\"]'),c=new RegExp(\"^https?:$\",\"i\"),i=0;i<o.length;i++)o[i].style.display=\"none\";for(i=0;i<a.length;i++)s=a[i],e.source===s.contentWindow&&(s.removeAttribute(\"style\"),\"height\"===t.message?(1e3<(r=parseInt(t.value,10))?r=1e3:~~r<200&&(r=200),s.height=r):\"link\"===t.message&&(r=new URL(s.getAttribute(\"src\")),n=new URL(t.value),c.test(n.protocol))&&n.host===r.host&&l.activeElement===s&&(d.top.location.href=t.value))}},d.addEventListener(\"message\",d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),l.addEventListener(\"DOMContentLoaded\",function(){for(var e,t,s=l.querySelectorAll(\"iframe.wp-embedded-content\"),r=0;r<s.length;r++)(t=(e=s[r]).getAttribute(\"data-secret\"))||(t=Math.random().toString(36).substring(2,12),e.src+=\"#?secret=\"+t,e.setAttribute(\"data-secret\",t)),e.contentWindow.postMessage({message:\"ready\",secret:t},\"*\")},!1)))}(window,document);\n\/\/# sourceURL=https:\/\/kimberlypearl.co\/blog\/wp-includes\/js\/wp-embed.min.js\n\/* ]]> *\/\n<\/script>\n","description":"{ images&#8217; source: d e c o l l a g e } I miss ballet. It was\u00a0everything 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\u00a0The Nutcracker,\u00a0Swan Lake, and its equivalents.\u00a0As soon as I turned nine\/ten, my ballet instructor recommended me for beginner pointe &#8211; something I\u2019ve only dreamed of, and always thought of being a day so far away. I begged my mom, but she refused. After all, I wasn\u2019t 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\u00a0was 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\u00a0dragged me to try out for my high school\u2019s 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&hellip;","thumbnail_url":"http:\/\/lacouturiernyc.files.wordpress.com\/2010\/05\/ballet3.jpg"}