I had an appointment at the Carolina Ballet today. In preparation for interviewing a prima ballerina, I took my four-year-old to Bojangles where I delicately consumed a chicken filet biscuit and sipped down a cup of sweet tea the size of a traffic cone. I rubbed my hands with some antibacterial foam and sucked on a splinter of a breath strip, grabbed my boy, and strode into the offices of the company.

After I had a coughing fit due to the large fog of smoke that encompassed the entrance, I was delighted to meet both the handler and her ballerina. They were very kind women, very lovely. And very thin. We walked past a couple of freakish looking women and some slight but beautiful boys. To my son's delight, the handler showed him the gingerbread men's costumes from "The Nutcracker".

All in all, the meeting went well. I had to wonder about that life, though...I can't wait to see The Company (currently midway down in my Netflix cue). And I may very well attend another ballet. But it seems a harsh life, with stringent guidelines, and a limited window for achieving anything. I don't have the artist's heart so I can't really know. But I can gawk and wonder, and watch these dancers, right through the cloud of smoke that obscures them from my view.