If That's What You Call It

On the drive to town this evening, I thought of all sorts of reasons why I could not go to dance class. I'm too fat. My head hurts. I'm too sweaty. I look like a pig. I have a bloody toe. My throat hurts. I can't breathe. Everybody will see me. I might die . . .

I got to town and parked my car across the street from the dance studio. Opening the car door and getting out was excruciating. I walked across the street, hoping that a car would hit me. None did. Damn! I walked to the door, opened it, and walked in. There I was. People were dancing. I just wanted to hide. I paid at the desk and walked to the back of the studio to the bathroom. I went in and locked the door. Maybe I could just stay here. No, that'd be stupid. I'd paid. I would take the class. I opened the door and sat on the bench in the back, hoping I'd disappear into the wall. Nope.

There were about 20 people in the class. I worked hard. I stayed for the entire time. I tried hard to do everything everybody else was doing. I tried harder not to look in the huge wall-length mirror. I tried to remember to breathe. I did not run. I danced. If that's what you call it. And I hated it. I will go back. I will try again.

HBK