Tomorrow I will be taking a ballet class from this place. It is located behind Carneige Hall, ground zero for all things classical. Nice and intimidating. Why else do we live in New York.

I will be taking this guy's beginner's ballet class. I guess he means beginner who already has been studying for a few years.

Last year, when I was in the throes of severe anemia, I took two or three of these classes. You see, I had no idea I was sick. I thought I was just depressed, and just needed to get off my ass and exercise.

What the hell had I been thinking. After 1/2 hour of barre exercise - that's holding onto a bar the whole time - I was drenched in my own sweat, gasping for breath and barely able to keep standing. When the class took a 5-minute water fountain break, I staggered out into the waiting area and called it a night.

The cool thing, though, was that Mr. Smith seemed to get that I wasn't just a fat old lady who was trying to dance. He simply walked out to the room, looked down at me sitting there on the couch, and said "How long has it been?" "Six years!" I said. "The barre killed you?" He said. "Yeah," I said, "but I'm coming back." "Good," he said, and proceeded to head back into class. I beamed. He knew. He could tell.

The second class, I was able to stick through the whole hour and a half, but I don't know how I did it. I do remember my ankles and legs shaking beneath me like a Parkinson's patient. The third class - I think I took a third class - I don't remember. Anyway, I was just too worn out to go any farther with it.

Besides, it was right at that time that my best friend moved to Korea, I moved out of my husband's apartment, and my fitness drive went completely out the door. A month later I was having trouble walking down the block to the ATM. When my job stress went into overdrive, I realized I didn't even have the energy to walk across the room for another box of tissues. I went to the Doctor. "I can barely make it out of my bed. I want Paxil," I said. "Ok... but let's do a blood test just to be sure there's nothing simpler going on," my doctor said.

Needless to say I (and my doc) was incredibly relieved to discover my exhaustion was physical, not psychological. It was CURABLE! I took iron supplements and eventually had a very simple surgical procedure. I was feeling vigorous and back to my old self by October of last year.

Two weeks ago, my best friend came back to NYC for an extended vacation. Guess where she wanted to go.

Ok. Here's the thing. I used to be what some people might think of as a semi-professional ballet dancer. I was in the Nutcracker 5 years in a row. I wore romantic tutus and pointe shoes and false eyelashes. I slaved away in classes with nasty, bitchy girls for something like 15 years. I hated the dance world. But... (violins) I always loved dancing.

Of course. Come on, who doesn't. You know you love to dance. Everybody does. The only people who don't just think they don't because they don't feel right doing it. But when they're alone in their car, with the sound cranked up, they're bopping in their seat. That's the dance urge. We all have it. It's irresistable.

ANYWAY.

My 15-20 years of "serious dancer life" culminated in my choreographing a production of Fiddler on The Roof at my old high school, doing the dream ballet roles in a few theatrical productions, and a brief foray into Modern and Tap in college and at the academy. That was it. Oh man. Those gestapoesque, ego-driven, inhuman choreographers. Those petty, bitchy, evil girls. All the people I worked with made me never want to dance again, ever, unless I'm pissed drunk in a bar. So, after my final class ended at the academy, I quit.

I mean I quit cold turkey. In 1996, I put all my shoes, leotards, legwarmers, etc into a big bag, stuffed the bag into the bottom of my closet and didn't touch it again.

Funny how I didn't give the stuff away to friends. Or donate it. Or simply trash it. Did I suspect that someday my feet would begin to proverbially itch again?

Anyway, 6 years went by until 2002 when Changock dragged me to Ballet Arts, to Lowell's class. This took an incredible amount of humility for me. I had gained 30 pounds. I wasn't fat, but I was far from nubile. And, hey, let's face it, in a room full of 16-year olds, I'm 32. This was very, very hard to do.

But I did it. Twice. (Maybe three times; I can't remember.) And the instructor paid a lot of attention to me, which was embarrassing and thrilling at the same time. Maybe he just wanted to ensure I'd pay for more $12 classes. Or... maybe he thought it was cool that a former dancer was making this kind of effort. All I know is, he made me feel like I had a right to be there.

I never thought I'd look at it that way, but that's how it felt. I felt like I had no right to take up space in a class full of promising young ABT dancers and rail-thin 40-something year old instructors who probably worked with Baryshnikov and have stories to tell. I'm a has-been, never-made-pro, fat old yuppie trying to get back in shape by returning to the only form of exercise I know.

Yeah... but I didn't feel that way those nights. And I hope to God I don't feel that way tomorrow.

I don't think I will.

But I still reserve the right to retire to the couch if the barre kills me again.