The Flying Shoe

My flying shoe …

I dance since I was a child, but my first contract as an adult dancer was in Lloret de Mar, with a company headed by a mother with her daughters,  family that today reminds me of a certain fairy tale.

Even so, I am grateful for how much I grew up as a person, after surviving among that pack of divas, from which I could only exclude a daughter, but especially how grateful I was for the great lesson I learned from them: “How not to treat others “

Well, working in this peculiar environment in which I only danced Spanish classical dance because the mother-boss of the company declared that I had very ugly arms to dance flamenco, one night while doing a developpé, my shoe literally flew off to the public.

 It was the time when the shoes were held with an elastic band on the instep and counting on  the excess sweating that I always had on my feet and the little instep of classical dancer I was born with, it was inevitable that one day or another, my Small flying shoe lifted its own flight.

Well, I had to happen right in that contract!

In that first job I was surprised that my dear boss had cheated me with the promised salary, receiving my first payroll for less than half of the amount agreed before the start of the contract, therefore, my financial resources were very scarce.  

That day that my shoe wanted to become independent, I was wearing  fishnet stockings with an unfortunate hole on my toe, revealing a big toe that made its way out like a turtle’s head through the immense hole of my stocking.


What does one do in such a case?

I thought: Do I leave the stage? Do I continue with the choreography as if nothing happened? Do I take off the other shoe left? What do I do? What do I do ……

There I was, dancing on tiptoe while the audience were cool on my big toe. The shame consumed me for seconds, but I kept dancing, pretending that nothing had happened and at the same time aware that nobody appreciated the dance anymore, because all the attention and laughter was starred by my spectacular hole in my stocking and the “soloist toe”.

The blush rose from the tip of that toe to my ears and although time became eternal,  with the daze, shame and indecision, the choreography came to an end.

When I raised my head in the corresponding greeting, I found one of the waiters in the room carrying my shoe on a silver tray.

I felt like Cinderella in a shabby version, without a prince or horse carriage, but today I have a question:

Wouldn’t this be the beginning of my truly fairy tale? …

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