Lately, I’ve noticed that whenever I leave for the dance studio, I pack two bags. One is familiar and increasingly specific: a good leotard, fleece-lined tights, an extra water bottle, Band-Aids for blisters, putty-colored flats for barre, a pair of low, strappy heels for salsa. The other is empty, which is the point.
A few nights a week, I exit class sweaty and ravenous and walk straight for a grocery store to fill it.
