When I joined the gym, one thing my tour guide mentioned is that there were plenty of options for cardio, so that if I got bored on the machines, I could try a class or two.
Unfortunately, most of the classes are ill-timed for my purposes, and I rather enjoy my half hour of rockin' out on the elliptical trainer. But variety is the spice of life, I had made the decision to go to the gym Thursday night, and Salsa crooked an alluring finger at me. That slut.
So I did my stretching and crunches, then went downstairs to find the music already playing and the way-too-chipper instructor introducing a pre-class salsa. Turns out that even with three years of ballet, one year of swing, and four years of clubbing -- I know bumpkis about dance.
Fifteen minutes later, as I'd managed to figure out how "basic" (the step shouted most often over the music, six steps in four beats) worked, I took a look in the mirror. The other girls were moving fluidly, jiggling along with the beat -- but I was wearing a sports bra and a oversized t-shirt. I tried to shimmy my shoulders, but there was no having it.
Now, to clarify. I'm not going to say that I am the grand high poohbah of mammary glands, but I'm not lacking in that department. I've even occasionally flaunted what He Above saw fit to give me. I have great breasts. I just don't know how to work 'em in the salsa context. Even my ass, which was unhindered by support garments, was like a block of wood, not its normal, perky, jiggly self.
I slumped out of the class worn out and a bit discouraged, unsure if this was a horse worth climbing back onto. There's a reason my dancing is limited to dark crowded spaces -- I am not a natural talent.
But I looked down at my poor, depressed, squashed breasts, hidden inside the baggy t-shirt. And I realized that if nothing else, they deserved another spin around the block.
So I may try again next week. Because the human body doesn't come with an owner's manual. But there are plenty of opportunities to pick up some pointers.