A few nights ago I attended a jazz class.
Having spent the majority of my childhood and adolescence dancing, I figured it would be just like old times--that I would just pick up where I left off.
Not the case.
Ten minutes into the class and I'm already sweating profusely. And that was just the warm up!!
The other two ladies in the class were definitely about ten years older than me and, by the looks of it, I would normally think that I could take them on in any sort of athletic capacity, but they were like pros compared to me.
Risa, our adorable 5 foot tall instructor, didn't give us a minute to breathe. It was one thing after another--kicks, turns, stretches, sassy jazz walking...
I was red in the face and begging for mercy and water by the time 8:30 rolled around.
As I returned home, I kept thinking "didn't I used to be good at this??" But as I entered my apartment and collapsed on the couch, feeling too exhausted to even take a shower or walk to my bedroom, I realized, "I'm not a good dancer."
I gotta work on that. After all, dance is still listed on my special skills on my resume...
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