Oh My Degas!

Not too long ago, someone introduced me to Degas.

His paintings are flushed with an air of romanticism. The tulle of the dancers' skirts flirt with the brush's strokes; you can hear the poised young ladies chatter excitedly about their weekend plans; rehearsal wraps up, the girls loosen their graceful buns, and they're dismissed to the boulevards of France, en route to an undoubtedly classy café.

Perhaps Degas entertains my sub rosa ambitions of life as a ballerina. An existence consumed with the subdued glamour of pirouettes and arabesques, rouge-stained cheeks, and a faculty that only a nonpareil elite share. I am so honestly transfixed by the allure of said lifestyle that I have a confession to make: once in a while, I will glance at a Degas painting and just ... think classy thoughts. I think about the cobbled avenues of Paris, the fresh crêpes for breakfast. I picture cap-toed ballet flats -- hand-made, of course, with ribbons to hug the kind of calves only dancers have. I look at my hands and envisage callouses earned from hours spent on the ballet bar -- not to be confused with the monkey bars. I can smell the redolent lilac tones of a delicate eau de toilette. I can feel my toes slip into a point shoe; I can see my leotard play with the light spilling through an aperture in the studio ceiling.

I see Degas, but I dream of that life.