Do you remember this post? If you're too lazy to click the link, (and trust me, you're in good company if you are) it's a post I wrote last month, after my first dance class. I was horrible, and I made a lot of self-deprecating comments, which resulted in a self-examination and finally a resolution to be nice to myself, however poorly I do.
Well, I just came home from dance again, and I have a confession.
I have fallen in love with dance.
I love the music. I love watching other people move to it, and I love feeling myself keep time with them. I even love that burning feeling in my legs, when my muscles start spasming out of control until I simply can't take another step. It isn't like writing. I don't love it that much yet. But it comes closer than any other activity ever has.
It may seem strange for me to feel ashamed of this ... but I kind of do. Here I was, using my suckitude as a metaphor for perseverance and self-confidence ... and I went and got better. I'm actually pretty good now, to tell you the truth. Not as good as the girls who have been doing it for years, but I seem to have at least some talent. Yet another metaphor goes down the drain.
Except ... maybe not. Maybe the lesson has just changed. After all, I never would have come this far if I had been beating on myself like I did at the first class. Sure, I actually did have natural talent. But would I ever have discovered it if I hadn't given myself a chance? Just a little something to think about.
And lest you think I'm getting full of myself, I still can't touch my toes. At all.
I'm working on that.
THat's because dance is epic and awesome!
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