V., professional dancer
At least this is how I know her, because I know almost nothing about her everyday life. And still, she is one of those women who have an impact on me, who come to mind often, who inspire me. She is V., the diva. Sometimes she rules the room in worn, ripped jeans, sometimes in loose striped trousers, and at other times in a black jumpsuit, always filling the space with her intense feminine energy.
She speaks softly and fast, and I really have to focus to catch everything. Sometimes she seems strict, other times it feels as if she were aware of every tiny movement of her body in every single moment. Like an octopus sensing each of its countless suction cups.
It often feels as though none of V.’s gestures happen by accident. As though everything followed a meticulously crafted internal rulebook, the kind that governs how women who embody true femininity carry themselves.
I usually feel uncomfortable around effortlessly gorgeous women. They remind me of everything I am not, everything that didn’t grow naturally in me. I tend to lower my gaze so they won’t see straight into my soul or give me that look that says: Well, sweetheart, it’s written all over you that you’re not part of the club.
So I quietly shuffle aside and look for a friendly wall to lean against. Face first, of course, to blend in a little if I already can’t turn invisible. And if the effortlessly gorgeous woman also happens to be loud-mouthed, then I’m doomed. Then I have to discreetly navigate myself behind her.
But V. is different. Being beside her has a calming effect. It feels as if she whispered, “Come here, let me show you something that helps.” With nothing but her presence she creates a pattern, a handful of subtle feminine gestures, posture, energy you’re grateful to borrow from time to time.
Beyond her diva flair, it is her professional humility that deserves real admiration. Not once, not even for a moment, does that certain look appear in her eyes, the one that says, You’re over forty, be glad your legs don’t get tangled and you still manage to straighten up.
That’s not quite it. You’re almost there, but not enough. Not that way, hold it like this. Not that swing, this one. The way a professional would. She approaches women over forty with the exact same confidence she has in the springy twenty-somethings whose bodies show no trace of childbirth: I’ll make a dancer out of you.
She’s the kind of person who takes you to the mirror so you can see what you’re doing and keeps you there until it finally becomes right. And if it still doesn’t work, she’ll even tell you what to practice at home using the fridge door or the windowsill. To her, you’re not the equivalent of a paid hour. You’re a woman she genuinely wants to teach and shape, with instinctive, unconditional warmth and a deep, natural sense of care.