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But for the Grace of God

It seems that my latest crisis is my very limited wardrobe. When I made the decision to only wear skirts, I failed to account for the forgiving nature of the fabric. My lower body quickly picked up on that fact that it can easily hide beneath the layers, and now I have 3 pairs of pants that fit them. Two of them are sweats that I attempt to mask as casual pants. It's a little sad, and I'm ashamed to admit this. It's true, though.

I decided to start working out again. My schedule lately has not allowed much free time, so I made the deal with myself to just do whatever I can. The rest will follow in time. Last night, a friend of mine and I decided to go to our long abandoned Zumba class. I'm still surprised that I actually suggested it, but it just seemed to work better last night.

Here's the thing. I don't really like Zumba. The instructor is entertaining, and the crowd is friendly and non-judgmental. We laugh at ourselves in the mirror and  I'd much rather be sliding and shaking on a dance floor in a flowing skirt with heels than frantically trying to keep time with an instructor's back. Zumba feels so fake to me. We're pretending to dance the gamut of Latin dances. But we're just going through the steps. We're pretending to tone our muscles. But we're just following a plan intended for bed-ridden patients. We're pretending to have fun. But we're really just trying to outdo each other in the mirrors.

It's really not fun for me. I don't like to mess things up. I want to match each step perfectly. I want my hips to slide like they were birthed in a South American village. I want people to look at me in the mirror and think, "Wow, I didn't know a white girl could dance like that."

Last night brought newcomers to the group--a grandmother, mother, granddaughter trio. Halfway through the class, the grandmother curled up with her oxygen tank. As we neared the end of the session, I noticed the youngest member of the group was missing at least two of her front teeth.

Instantly, I was struck with that awkward feeling--the one that makes you want to simultaneously cringe and surge with feelings of inferiority. I thought about how embarrassed I would be to lose teeth. I wanted to run over and encourage them to keep trying. I compared their belly rolls with my own. I wanted to defend them against the people laughing at them. I stood a little higher on the pride that I can follow a Latin step without looking like a total gringa. I wanted to fall on my knees and beg forgiveness for my haughtiness.

At that moment, I realized that my shame and pride and awkwardness had very little to do with the newcomers and everything to do with me. I have no control over the lives of other people. I couldn't take away their extra weight. I couldn't replace the teeth. I couldn't repair the lungs. I don't know why I have been blessed the way I have, and I often feel very embarrassed by the fact that I am blessed in amazing ways.

And I need to honor that. I realized that even if I don't like its shape and size, I have a body that moves--without pain. I have a job that pays the bills--and lets me travel the world. I have a mind that reads and calculates--and does it faster and better than most others. I can't change that any more than I could change their lives.

When I refuse to acknowledge how I have been blessed, I am throwing away gifts that have intentionally been bestowed on me. There's nothing wrong with me. I am made with a purpose.

So I stopped following the instructor. I stopped looking in the mirror. I let my arms flail around and my hips slide and swirl in time with the music they felt. I laughed and closed my eyes and immersed myself in the experience of being alive in that moment. In Zumba class.

I want to continue honoring what has been given to me.
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