Practice your ballerina hands, the email said, without much clarification on how to do that.
I looked down at my hands. They were frying pan hands, and the Teflon was peeling.
Practice pointing your toes like a ballerina, the email said. But I’m no ballerina, and all my practice was futile.
Practice smiling genuinely, the email said. At last, something I could do! But when I looked in the mirror, all I could see was the ruby nightmare that framed my face and glittered beneath the bright white vanity lights.
So much for that idea, I thought.
I took a deep breath and tried again. This time, instead of imagining…