I love to dance. I anxiously anticipate weddings because I can break it down in a sea of happy dancers. And I never thought te day would come where I regretted ever proclaiming my love for dance. But it happened. It happened when I was mid-box step in a cardio dance class. I looked around the room, saw how happy everyone was and my heart sank. My feet were still moving, but all the energy had been sucked out of. It's still a mystery why I lost the feeling, and I tried to get back into it, but there I was sashe-ing across the floor with limp noodle arms. I don't normally compare myself, but in that moment, everyone in the room was better than me. Sassy stay at home mom had great tempo, peppy twenty-something had ebullience, too good for everyone blondie tossed her hair like a pro. Here were all these women working it, and there I was, miserable.
I couldn't explain it. I glanced at the door imagining a grand escape, never to return. The instructor would casually remark how weird my exit was and I'd be forgotten. I pushed on, made it to the part where we all clap because it was a "great class". As I changed to street sneakers the pockets of conversations started, and I found myself with no one to talk to. I darted to my car before the tears started. I was embarrassed for not knowing how to make friends, devastated because I felt like dance had deserted me and just overwhelmed that I was about to dive back into a never-ending pile of work.
I'm not sure what all this means. I can only hope it was just one off night. I'll head back to class on Saturday for another round in the battle to meet friends while doing something for me.
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