Dance

Since my darling Abraham began sleeping 11 and 12 hours a night, I have been very, very busy. Mainly catching up on sleep. Though after a week of sleeping I decided it was time to have a little bit of a life again. And then I took a nap.
There is a local workout here called Dance Trance. This form of exercise is NOT your typical jazzercise or aerobics class. This place is for DANCERS. And seeing as how I danced for 10 years as a kid and young adult, I thought this would be the perfect way to get back into the real world of exercise and remember that part of my soul that loves to dance and express all those feelings that get bottled up in the first few months motherhood. Also, my husband bought me a month's worth of classes so I didn't really have a choice but to use them.
I showed up to my first class wearing tennis shoes. Amateur. Everyone else in the class had dance shoes on, as well as adorable workout outfits that ONLY women who haven't ever breastfed could wear. I was wearing two bras and some yoga pants with panty lines like a mountain range. I desperately wanted to put on a sandwich board that read, "I have a 5 month old at home, this is OK."
I took my place as close to the back of the class as possible between two women who were newbies as well. We enjoyed laughing at ourselves and bumping into each other as the new kids in town. We commisterated at the end of the class about how we should definitely try the beginners class next time. But then Jay, the class instructor, asked my name and told me I did a great job in my first class. Ha. Ego meet helium tank. I practically floated back to my car. Yeah that's right. I'm a dancer.
I got home that night and glowed all over my husband. I practiced a few of my dance moves in the shower and planned out my audition piece for So You Think You Could Dance because I am clearly next season's winner. I picked out a somewhat cuter outfit than my first Dance Trance class and went to bed dreaming of night 2.
I walked into my second class with my pass and my water and my "I know what to do, don't worry, I'm not new" face. I took my place in the second to the last row and started stretching. The music started and a female instructor shouted, "New faces? Any new faces tonight?" A few people raised their hands (not me obviously, this was NOT my first class), including a blonde girl next to me. We'll call her Flippy. Flippy looked to be about 19 years old and clearly didn't realize she should be in the BACK row being new, but I didn't say anything. The first song started and I did my best to keep up, feeling fairly confident about how quickly I was picking up the steps. As we began to rehearse the song, I couldn't help but notice Flippy. Flippy was picking up the steps, too. Faster. And adding her own flair. Like jazz hands. And hip thrusts. I began to resent Flippy. I began to compete with her. I started adding flair. And hip thrusts. By the end of the class, I was completely exhausted. Flippy was...well...flippy. She flounced off to the locker room while I caught my breath. It was the first time in my life I wanted to use the, "I'm almost 30" excuse. Thirty isn't old! But it's not 19.
When I got home, my husband was feeding our son a bottle and putting him to sleep. I was so filled with love and life listening to him whisper to Abe and care for him that I forgot about Flippy. Yeah, 30 is a little older than 19. I don't have the freedom or the flexibility or the body. Don't get me wrong, I still look great, but great in a, "I just had a kid" way. And I love that. I doubt that Flippy had a beautiful husband to go home to. And she probably looks in the mirror and thinks she's fat. Flippy is just another reminder that life is pretty flippin' perfect right now. And I'll see Flippy tonight when I dance her off the floor.