Everyone is a stage.
It was barely three weeks ago that I realized that I had fallen into a quagmire of mental and physical inertia and intended to struggle again towards greatness. The momentum? Watching my young daughter toil under the heavy yoke of classical ballet, the greatest art form ever offered to our unworthy world.
Taut, arabesque, rombe de leg, pirouette.
Unlike our surfing, there is no “almost good enough” thing about ballet.
There are no horseshoes or hand grenades in the greatest art form ever offered by Italy, France, Russia.
Each tendon is either aligned correctly or it is not correctly and if it is not correctly then angry barking rains down from the relentless masters.
I watched her squeak, I felt my deep shame, I meant to hit Ashton goggans in the biggest trilogy fight of the decade, but a funny thing happened on the way to the Octagon.
I was asked to play Mother Ginger in San Diego Ballet Academy next performance of The Nutcracker.
Originally choreographed by the legendary Marius Ivanovich Petipa and composed by the most legendary Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky, The Nutcracker has become one of the most iconic ballets of all time.
A pure work of art.
And there I was, taking my young daughter to long days of rehearsals, endless classes, watching her reach levels of talent that I had never even smelled when the call came.
“Are you Mother Ginger?”
For the rude, uninformed, Mother Ginger is a central character in The Nutcracker. She stirs on stage, in a loud manner, in the second act during the arrangement “Land of Sweets”. She is pure entertainment, pleasant entertainment, entering the stage with a flock of Bon Bons, or tiny dancers, under the wide pleats of her skirt that emerge, dance, are scolded, slip under her dress as she goes. goes to a thunderous applause. .
Historically, Mother Ginger has been played by a tall man in drag because it takes a tall man to endure the skirt pleats necessary to hide many Bon Bons, and it was my destiny to be that tall man … in drag.
Feeling the big bend in my path to greatness, I immediately agreed to show up to my first rehearsal with always present WHOOP strap affixed, about twenty Bon Bons scrambling, chuckling, exhausted choreographer, me, in a skeleton of a wide skirt, tying so as not to step on them, trying to vamp properly.
In my prime minister, and beloved, WHOOP missive Telegraphing this pivot to greatness, the august Travis Edgar suggested, “Maybe just ballet with the kid” instead of training to fight.
He had no idea how stressful, trying, utterly impossible the business.
I was sweating profusely trying not to step on Bon Bons as I tried to remember my choreography while waving my arms, garishly, fabulously, while hoisting my skirt skeleton.
A boon of fitness.
My SHOUT measured so far a record of 9.8 deformation.
Most stressful yet and I challenge you to approach it, challenge you to affix a WHOOP strap to your own wrist (an incredible fifteen percent discount if you use code BEACHGRIT at checkout).
I was also chosen to play the role of “Party Dad” in the equally iconic party scene.
Pass the numbers through the roof.
Gogganses running for the hills.
Black dance shoes ordered.
More as the story develops.
Information on upcoming tickets.