inner rumba

In the spirit of auditioning hobbies, I let Metro talk me into ballroom dancing lessons tonight. We were the only single gals there with 4 older couples. This meant we got to foxtrot with each other and the tiny female instructor. I felt heavy, uncoordinated, and lumbering as I took broad, flat-footed steps among the bird-like returning dancers. Awkward.

Then halfway through we switched to rumba and the instructor’s husband arrived to dance with us. I relaxed as he coached me through the rumba steps of slow, quick, quick, which were surprisingly much easier than the foxtrot. When I switched to dancing with the instructor she began twisting her hips to the music, and I got it. I felt the rhythm. I stopped staring at my feet, and I found my inner rumba.

I am no bird, but maybe I could be a horse—with wings. And maybe a little rhythm.