I walked into class, the previous class' dancers filing out before me. I gently tossed my heavy black bag on the floor in my usual place and took out my shoes. The first thing one would notice about my shoes was that they were worn. Very worn. But I slipped them on with a quickness that could only be mastered with much practice and stood up. I pliéd and snapped up to a sous sous, admiring my shoes. They were dingy, now a grey-ish pink instead of their normal vibrant peach color, but capable of great things. The satin on the tips of the platform were fraying and, on the right shoe, had ripped off entirely. The shank along my arch was bent to the shape of my foot perfectly. They might be dirty and people might pass right by them, but, like me, they are not what they seem to be at first.