Last week I went to the ballet with my roommate. She is very tapped into the best cultural NYC activities and scored us amaaaazing $12 tickets. I suppose this could be a half check on my life list; I’d seen a ballet in Paris, but never in New York and it’s definitely something I’ve been wanting to do.

It was the company’s last week of the Spring season and the world debut of a new performance. The program consisted of three very different short pieces — first was the well-known Bible story Prodigal Son and let’s just say ballet with ancient plots might not be my thing. I couldn’t wait until it was over. I sat there terrified, thinking that maaaybe I don’t like the ballet as much as I remembered.

But all fears were allayed by the second and third acts. The debut performance (Mirage) was heavy on dancing with no plot to speak of — beautiful and perfect — and the last was a country ho-down type of dance (Western Symphony).

I was in awe of the athleticism of the dancers…but I guess that’s how you come to dance professionally at Lincoln Center, eh? The men tossed the women around and manipulated them with a twirl of the finger, as if they were weightless painted dolls, and every move was enviably graceful.

My only regret was not eating dinner beforehand. My snacks of greek yogurt, kashi crackers and a banana did not fill me up.

It was a spontaneous kind of Tuesday. The type that makes me love the big city outside my doorstep.

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