Many, many years ago I took a dance class led by a guest teacher. He was quite talented and entertaining, but he definitely taught with a flourish that tended toward grand pronouncements. I made the unfortunate error of wearing a red leotard to class that day. He looked at me and said, “The great Anna Sokolow, with whom I trained, once told me, ‘If you wear red, you must dance red.’”
He looked at me in anticipation.
I looked at him with trepidation.
I’m sure class was fine—though I don’t particularly remember dancing red. What I do remember is that I never wore red to class again—even though he was only a guest instructor, and I never actually had him for class after that day. The only way you could get me into red for years was if it was a costume, and I had no choice. In fact, every time I see something red those words come back to me. I have a feeling that my wardrobe is awash in blues, black and earthtones because I’ve never once heard someone say, “If you wear tan, you must dance tan.” Though if they did, I could probably pull that off.
I bought a red dress a couple of years ago. I’ve worn it twice: once to a screening of a film I produced and once to The X-Files: I Want to Believe premiere. It was actually a pretty daring night for me, so maybe I was dancing red down the carpet. I retired the dress.
It’s not that I haven’t been tempted. I have two red shirts in my closet—I’ve even worn one of them... once. But every time I see them I hear that echo—and on an average Wednesday, I haven’t really felt like walking red, much less dancing it.
Given this history, I’m not sure what happened here:
That’s my leg. My legs are in red jeans. I’m wearing red jeans, and they aren’t a costume. I’ve turned a corner. I’m telling you: dangerous things are afoot (or aleg).
Who knows what is going to happen next?