Don't Sweat The Small Stuff--Easier Said Than Done

Figuratively speaking, dancers have to sweat the small stuff. Ballet is all about tiny details, and teachers will tell you that if you don’t think about certain things, like turning out, they will not happen automatically while you smile at the audience. Dance is all about paying attention to small details. Literally speaking, all of those tiny motions make me sweat. So yes, I sweat the small stuff.
I sweat “a lot,” as a younger dancer once pointed out to me, wide-eyed. There are no spots of sweat. By the time we have done three or four barre exercises, my leotard develops dark patches and my back is covered with droplets. Then drops the size of dimes start appearing on the floor next to the barre. Because some of the barres at José Mateo are rusty (they are, after all, iron pipes), some of the drops are brown, making it look as though I’m on a jungle adventure instead of in ballet class. The sweat travels from my hands to the barre to the floor. Eventually, my whole leotard changes to a darker shade.
When I asked the teacher about ways to deal with sweat, Mary suggested I wear socks under my ballet shoes “if I didn’t want to wear tights.” I had been avoiding pink tights (not because I didn’t own many pairs of them) by wearing black footless leggings. Next class, the socks got soaked, as did the pink, footed tights the following class. How about purple tights?
Another person suggested bringing two pairs of shoes to class and changing shoes between barre and center. I brought some brand new shoes to class today and put them on triumphantly after barre, thinking I had outsmarted my enemy. Yet after one combination, the baby-pink shoes were darkening to salmon, and soon after that, they were soaked, too. At that point, afraid of other dancers slipping on the spots I was leaving on the floor, not to mention slipping on my own shoes, I decided to sit out the rest of the class. I moseyed over to the corner and sat down to stretch, leaving sweat everywhere I touched down. It was a relief to no longer worry about wiping it up. I grinned thinking about how it might be a good time to pull out a yellow “Caution: wet floor” sign.
On my way home, I bought some spray-on antiperspirant, thinking that I could spray it on my feet and inside my shoes. Some online research suggested that was a good idea. Though the deodorant says “for underarms only,” I’m going to try it anyway. Now, where, besides “on my feet and under my armpits,” to apply it? I don’t know how others in a crowded dressing room would feel about me using spray deodorant. Perhaps I could do it in an empty corner of the studio or in the bathroom. There, though, I would risk leaving concentrated fumes that might offend the next user. I could spray it at home, then put on my socks and wear the same socks under my shoes. Or I could spray it on outside the dance studio. How romantic: me sitting or standing/hopping around next to the church/ballet studio, its surrounding flower beds, and the bronze statue of a dancer, spraying on deodorant. How about they erect a statue of a dancer spraying on deodorant (as it would be possible to misread that last sentence)?
Tomorrow, I will go to class (under)armed with a spray can of antiperspirant, a spice container filled with baking soda, pink tights (for good luck), two pairs of socks, two pairs of dry ballet shoes, and a towel. We’ll see how it goes.