A girl can take ballet classes for years and never become a ballerina.

Gosh darn it.

If only taking classes and wearing a black leotard were enough, it’s not. At some point, this very sturdy girl realized she was not willowy like ballerinas and probably would never have a dancer’s foot with a killer arch. I also took tap and jazz, but was neither tall enough to be a Rockette nor angular enough to make a Bob Fosse chorus line.

You know those guys who never made it to the big leagues but signed up for fantasy baseball camp? This gal, the one who all these years later still has her old toe shoes and white ballet tutu from high school, got to go to fantasy ballet camp. 

My friend Les Jordan III made it happen. 

Years after my most glamorous dance teacher, “Miss Jean,” did grant me my senior solo full of kicks, skipping and the splits to the very hummable “Skip to My Lou,” I met Jordan. 

Jordan, artistic director of North Central Ballet who had even known “Miss Jean,” entered my life as a most intriguing man. I was captivated by the fact he had been an actual professional dancer who people had paid money to see and applaud on stage. 

Now a professional dance teacher dedicated to training serious, classical dancers, Jordan still had fascinating stories from his on-stage career.

I might have begged Jordan a few times (more like dozens) for a small role in “The Nutcracker” party scene. For the uninitiated, that’s the opening scene where elegantly dressed ladies and gents attend a Christmas Eve soiree. A non-dancer with some sense of a right and left foot, and a passing knowledge of musical timing, could handle such a background role.

But Jordan did better than just allowing me to wear a dark velvet gown and nod in the background. Last year, he gave me a great, extravagant gift — he chose me to dance as the mother in the party scene. I didn’t believe him, but once I realized he was serious, I was all in. Watch out, this prima donna was going to take the stage.

The first rehearsal in the studio was daunting. What do I put on this now even fluffier bod? Do I wear ballet shoes? I knew better than to subject the rest of the cast to a leotard and tights, so yoga pants and tennis shoes worked well enough. 

The young (to me) ballerinas gossiped in the corners of the studio while the other adults — and there were a handful of us reliving childhood fantasies — stood around, smiling, waiting to start. 

The dance was easy to learn. I picked that up in about five minutes. But who knew about the acting part? The moving from here to there, dodging other dancers, handing off props at the right time.

It taxed my brain. 

Rehearsals went on for weeks. The pantomime and stage direction were the difficult chunks. I managed. 

Need a humbling experience? Try on those minuscule ballerina costumes surrounded by those lithe, little things who dance the “Waltz of the Flowers” or the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. This gal who has been on a diet since third grade yet is even more abundant than in high school, didn’t fit in a single one of even the “big” (as in normal) costumes. 

Thank goodness a Fort Worth costume shop believes people who enjoy an occasional cheeseburger deserve an ample costume.

The morning of our first shows, special performances for Birdville Independent School District students, was a fun day at I.M. Terrell Performing Arts Facility. I received a surprise — my name was on a dressing room door. I shared it with two other adult dancers, but it didn’t matter. My name might as well have been up in lights on Broadway.

I loved the costume – ivory brocade with a pink sash, full skirt and ruffled bodice. With hair in an updo and elbow gloves, I was ready for my Nutcracker debut. Dancers for the party scene all wait backstage as Tchaikovsky’s famous notes fill the auditorium. 

I was not scared, but excited and a tad bit nervous I would forget the important mission of crossing the stage and handing Clara her toe shoes before she dances. But mostly I couldn’t wait to be on stage. 

The music took over. The lights shined bright. The dancing children were precious. My on-stage “husband” was a handsome gentleman. And as the party’s hostess, I was allowed to greet party guests, give gifts to children, scold the naughty boys and wave adieu to the departing visitors, all in a rather grand style. That expansive display of being in charge wearing high heels and jewelry, according to my family, was not acting. I just played myself, or so they said. 

Backstage at the ballet is organized chaos, choreographed in the dark. More than 100 volunteers organized it, from stashing the party gifts to safe-keeping the party-scene bugle. Everything has a place, and one must not touch them lest the Rat King lose his sword.

After their turns on stage, most of the dancers go straight to their dressing rooms to change costumes. I managed to stay unnoticed in a backstage corner to watch the dancers from the wings.

The audience sees grace and smiles through leaps and pirouettes. From my perch, I saw how hard the male dancers worked, often with stiff layers of a tutu smashed against them, to present those high lifts. I saw more than one ballerina come off stage, catch her breath and tiptoe back on stage, all poise and polish.

After the curtain closed, the dancers were allowed to greet audience members in the lobby. Friends brought flowers, and strangers wanted photos. Did I love it? Oh yes, oh yes. The Fantasy Nutcracker camp was better than I had even imagined.

I was never the long-limbed dancer with the perfect ballet turnout or the uber-arched feet. Maybe I was training to be the mom on stage in “The Nutcracker.” Even the mom gets to dance in a beautiful ballet to well-known music in front of fairy-tale sets.

And after the last person left the theater, it still felt like magic.

Encore, please?