The Winter Of My Arabesque

Once upon a time on a sunny icy prairie, a shy, plodding 8 year old dreamed of taking ballet classes. She was invited to the recital of a much pudgier, pampered little classmate, and from that day on she pestered and pestered until her mother agreed and dollars were gathered and classes were booked. She loved watching the beautiful, graceful teacher demonstrate, and could see the magic emerge as the teacher extended her fingers on a raised arm or turned her head to the note of a piano chord.
She had a secret crush on the cool, gay piano player whose burning cigarette dangled from his lusty lips.
As the years passed something else emerged. The realization she was not particularly adept at doing this thing, though as a spectator it took her breath away. So in her head she began to star in her own full length ballets, where of course, she was perfect.
More years went by, and the little girl became a middle aged lady. Lo and behold, a young and beautiful ballet teacher came to the gym where she exercised. She was so excited to try the classes. But when she did, her body refused to cooperate with her mind. In her mind that starring ballerina was still conquering stages. But in the mirror of the gym studio....the plodding 8 year old was back!
How are those hurts so deeply branded that decades later nothing short of perfect will do? Why isn't it enough to move to the music and enjoy? Why do the mirrors enslave, pronounce judgement, and sentence to forever inadequate? Clearly the key is to turn away from the mirror, and channel the prima swannerina within.