The Nut Case

It happens like clockwork. At the beginning of each December, I begin to sweat and feel like I am drowning in a tidal wave of severe angst and nausea. It’s not the onset of a stomach flu. It’s fallout from my days in The Nutcracker.

When I was 12, I was possessed by ballet. My parents should have thought to employ an exorcist. I went insane jumping and twirling around our house. I flung my legs into the air and onto any surface that would hold them. At best, my ballet fanaticism was annoying. At its worst, it resulted in both physical injury and property damage. I was responsible for a cracked rib, a hole in the kitchen wall, and I managed to destroy exactly 23 pieces of my mother’s wedding china with an ill-placed battement. Dental bills remained a concern because, as my mother Diane put it, it was only a matter of time until I knocked out everyone's teeth.

My ballet mania culminated around my desperation to be cast as a “party child” in our local production of The Nutcracker. The Nutcracker was a legitimate full-length ballet, not some crapper end of the year recital. Party Child. Those two casual little words cannot possibly convey the sheer amazingness of the role. If you had a flying car, a brand-new pair of Guess jeans, and a lifetime supply of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, you would still be light years away from Party Child.

The party children were the chosen, the beautiful people. They were girls ages 11-13 who could inhale four boxes of girl scout cookies and still look emaciated. They had good hair, didn’t need glasses, and always had cool dance bags. It was a clique I would have happily sacrificed a chicken to join. PARTY CHILD. I was gonna get there if it killed me.

I had been working my tail off in ballet class along with the aforementioned extra practices at home. On the Sunday of the auditions, I threw down some Tammy Faye Bakker inspired cry-praying at church before my parents took me to a pre-game meal at the Olive Garden. I was hopped up on fettuccini alfredo and laser focused on the prize. My stomach was in knots thanks to nerves and an overdose of carbs, but no stomach cramp was going to blow this for me. My concentration was unwavering throughout the audition. I did not speak to my neighbors at the barre; I tucked in my butt. Now we had only to await the news of my triumph. Hours passed and finally a disembodied hand reached through the door and slapped the list to a wall. My ballet classmates squealed with delight as they read their names under that glorious banner. In an unforeseen turn of events, my name was not there. At the bottom of the page, I found my name under, Rats.

I did not see this coming.

When I was 5 years old, my ultra-strict ballet teacher Ms. Caruso refused to allow me leave class to go to the bathroom and I lost charge of my bladder in the middle of the floor. Standing in a pool of my own urine was far less embarrassing than being cast as a rodent in the biggest ballet production of the year. How could this have happened?

Perhaps because this was me round Nutcracker audition time.

 If they had been casting the role of Chunk’s long-lost sister in The Goonies, I would have been a shoo in.

After 35 years of reflection, I now understand that the girls who were the fatties, the basket cases, and the nose pickers ended up as rats. I was a fattie rat. I was joined in the rat club by my friend Shelley as well as four older girls no one had ever seen. It was obvious they had never attended a ballet class and most likely turned up for the audition on a dare. But since everyone who auditioned was promised a part, they were lumped into the rat pack with us.

The blessed party girls, unencumbered by pounds, puberty, or vision problems, were fitted for delicate lace pantaloons and jewel toned taffeta dresses. The rats were loaded into fat suits the color of an expired armadillo and made to stand stock still in the felt prisons while an ornery old woman jammed in extra padding to “fill it out.”. The result was a full body diaper carrying the world’s largest foam dump. There is no way to clean years of sweat out of decaying felt, not that anyone had tried. We smelled like a rotting carcass that had been stored in a swamp for safe keeping. The suit was heavy, hot, and miserable. And going to the bathroom was a fuggedaboutit once you were strapped in. At least the head was removeable.

Ah, the rat head. You might as well have eaten a toilet. Breathing wasn’t an option unless you had your hopes pinned on a staph infection. Vision was limited and without my pink engraved granny glasses I couldn’t see my own feet. I was always one step away from taking a header into the orchestra pit. I had to strip the head off every few minutes to avoid suffocation. It was everything I never dreamed of.

Every Sunday afternoon for three months our loser posse rehearsed with the Rat King, a high school dude who, according to 12-year-old gossip, may or may not have killed a guy in the Hardee’s parking lot on Carter Hill Road. The rat choreography boiled down to staying low to the ground, scurrying, and making rat hands. It’s difficult to scurry while inhabiting a sweat sponge but a drunken truck driver could have managed it without rehearsal. There was no ballet involved. None. This worked for the unidentified girls with no ballet training, their lack of elegance was rat ready. But Shelley and I were pissed. We signed up for tutus, hair ribbons, makeup, and applause. We did not sign up for endless suffering in a wearable padded cell.

I know what you are thinking. By the time the curtain rose, and the lights were hot we made the best of our characters and had a wonderful time. Bullshit. I would have rather amputated my own leg using Kool Aid as an anesthetic. We did not have fun. We did not receive flowers. We weren’t even photographed by our parents as there was simply no reason to memorialize the lack of achievement. If you are an addict working through recovery, I encourage you to find employment as a Nutcracker rat. It’s the fastest track I can think of to rock bottom.

To her credit, Shelley quit ballet shortly after our public shaming. I continued to try to sway the ballet powers by my hardcore commitment to the craft. For my efforts I won myself another stint as rat dung before I was ‘promoted’ to soldier. It was a lateral move. Soldier is the second worst role in the ballet but at least your parents can see your face. You wouldn’t know if it was me of Jeffrey Dahmer under that rat dome.

I’m not saying that I’m still bitter. (I am.) I’m not saying that I still know the party child dance. (I do.) I’m not saying that our ballet directors were heartless. (They were.) Let me simply say this. 35+ years on I am thinner, my teeth are straight, and I have had Lasik surgery. According to Shelley, our hometown ballet company is still cranking out The Nutcracker every year and the auditions are still open to the public.

Party Child 2025.

I am coming for you.