College essay for Vasholz..
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While still catching my breath, I begin to examine my swollen feet, particularly a large blister on the side of my right toe. As I push on one side of the blister, the puss moves to the other, creating a small ridge on my toe. Due to continual pokes at the blister in different places, the skin begins to become slightly looser as my little puss mountains change from place to place. My final poke is at the center of the blister. Although I have two puss filled mountains this time, they are soon flooded by an over flow of puss and blood. Cringing from the sudden sharp sting, I sooth my crippled crimson toe with a wet paper towel; strategically avoiding the sight of the sanitizing, yet painful, alcohol pad. I glance at my other toes, pleased to see I was only blessed with one blister tonight. My other toes, faithful veterans as well, radiate a scarlet hue due to past blisters, calluses, and my personal favorite, the ingrown toe nail. Guilt soon gets the best of me and I tear open the much dreaded alcohol pad. Holding the pad above my toe, I begin to count in my head. “One…Two…Three!” I squirm as I feel the jolt of a thousand knives crusading into a single spot on my toe.
Quickly, I bandage my damaged toe and begin to put on my pointe shoes. I look at the satin shoes, the careful stitching, their soft pink shine and feelings of spite cross my mind. I want to remind my shoes that their beauty is only skin deep, and although the audience may not know their brutal secret, I certainly do. I could limp on stage, or fall, and give away their sweet façade. Yet, as I begin to hear my music cue, I stand up, softening out my silvery tutu. In less than a second, the eye blinding lights, and swift violins embrace my body and soul as I leap onto stage. No longer do I feel the slightest tingle from my toes, but only the sound of the music guiding my body as I pirouette across stage. My lips spread across my face in true bliss of being transformed into another world framed by scarlet velvet curtains and, eventually, the sound of an enthusiastic applause.
In the dressing room, I begin to take off my pointe shoes. Suddenly, a radiating sense of energy takes over, and I pirouette several times in the small changing area. As I finally take off my shoes, I notice that blood has soaked through my tights, creating dark brown moist patches, but I remain immune to any burning sensation. I feel guilty for blaming my sacred shoes for coercing me into simply putting them on display for the audience. “Your beauty isn’t skin deep,” I reassure them in my head. Only my blisters remain skin deep. A small price to pay, I suppose, when a pair of shoes can lift you up in a gale of joy and leave you spinning in a storm of ecstasy.
While still catching my breath, I begin to examine my swollen feet, particularly a large blister on the side of my right toe. As I push on one side of the blister, the puss moves to the other, creating a small ridge on my toe. Due to continual pokes at the blister in different places, the skin begins to become slightly looser as my little puss mountains change from place to place. My final poke is at the center of the blister. Although I have two puss filled mountains this time, they are soon flooded by an over flow of puss and blood. Cringing from the sudden sharp sting, I sooth my crippled crimson toe with a wet paper towel; strategically avoiding the sight of the sanitizing, yet painful, alcohol pad. I glance at my other toes, pleased to see I was only blessed with one blister tonight. My other toes, faithful veterans as well, radiate a scarlet hue due to past blisters, calluses, and my personal favorite, the ingrown toe nail. Guilt soon gets the best of me and I tear open the much dreaded alcohol pad. Holding the pad above my toe, I begin to count in my head. “One…Two…Three!” I squirm as I feel the jolt of a thousand knives crusading into a single spot on my toe.
Quickly, I bandage my damaged toe and begin to put on my pointe shoes. I look at the satin shoes, the careful stitching, their soft pink shine and feelings of spite cross my mind. I want to remind my shoes that their beauty is only skin deep, and although the audience may not know their brutal secret, I certainly do. I could limp on stage, or fall, and give away their sweet façade. Yet, as I begin to hear my music cue, I stand up, softening out my silvery tutu. In less than a second, the eye blinding lights, and swift violins embrace my body and soul as I leap onto stage. No longer do I feel the slightest tingle from my toes, but only the sound of the music guiding my body as I pirouette across stage. My lips spread across my face in true bliss of being transformed into another world framed by scarlet velvet curtains and, eventually, the sound of an enthusiastic applause.
In the dressing room, I begin to take off my pointe shoes. Suddenly, a radiating sense of energy takes over, and I pirouette several times in the small changing area. As I finally take off my shoes, I notice that blood has soaked through my tights, creating dark brown moist patches, but I remain immune to any burning sensation. I feel guilty for blaming my sacred shoes for coercing me into simply putting them on display for the audience. “Your beauty isn’t skin deep,” I reassure them in my head. Only my blisters remain skin deep. A small price to pay, I suppose, when a pair of shoes can lift you up in a gale of joy and leave you spinning in a storm of ecstasy.