Thousands of us, swan-necked and haggard with practice, competed for each of the few, prestigious positions in the Congressional Ballet. The competition created an unequaled national troupe, but the rest of us had to eat, too.

Former food servers eyed us murderously as we pirouetted through the restaurants and balanced trays on our long, gracious toes for tips. Clowns fell into disfavor as we competed to entertain at children's birthday parties, each arabesque cheaper than the next, and even the mannequin industry suffered as one by one we replaced the plasti-form goddesses with our own bodies, extra pay if we'd model the swimsuits, maternity dresses, and ski-wear en pointe.

When the money finally ran out, I found it even more difficult to find work than those of us who had lost their troupes earlier in the year. Every fine hotel had a Giselle to dust the mantle. Every office had an Odette running the front desk. Every cafe had a Coppelia to pull espressos.

But finally, I too found my niche. In hungry desperation I took my worn toe-shoes to the fair and set them out on my old lace mantilla that I wore in "Tarantella" to sell. Amazingly, they sold quickly and well. Women wanted them to hang from their bedposts and vanity mirrors to add a touch of romance to their bowers, but not new ones, they wanted mine.

No less than two dozen women crowded around my display, bargaining each other higher and higher in an impromptu auction, hungry to win the trophy of my shoes.

I grinned at my bundle of bills and asked in wonder what they all wanted with such worn shoes, why not just buy new ones. They told me that shoes that showed such use had passion, had history, had the signature of the dancer, had the very life of Dance infused in their soles.

I thought them all quite mad, but waves to ride were hard to come by in those days, so I took some of my money and bought ten more pairs. Alone in my studio I danced them out as fast as I could. They sold also, and so did the next batch, and the next.

All of my shoes sold, but the ones that bought the highest price were the ones I worked the hardest. Shoes with their satin threads blackened and snapped at the toe, their kidskin soles worn through, and their frayed ankle ribbons reduced to trembling wisps of silk straining to keep their integrity: these were the ones that paid my rent.

To work my shoes yet harder, to give them more of that lucrative "je ne sais quois" my customers were always babbling about, I danced on macadam roads, rocky paths, and sharp pebbled river beds. I hurt so much, all the time, but then, every dancer knows that her feet are not destined for velvet cushions. I shouldn't complain. Not when I am fortunate enough to have so much work.

Tomorrow I fly to Eastern Europe. I hope to give a new pathos to my wear-patterns by dancing on the rough cobbles of war-torn villages. I am sure my next sales will fetch well at Sotheby's. If I can tip a shoe or two with the blood of the dying, I may well be able to take a vacation, perhaps even treat myself to a ticket to the Congressional Ballet. Tickets are so expensive these days, but I hear every minute is pure rapture.