On dancing.

Before I kept a blog that I didn’t keep up with, I kept a diary that I didn’t keep up with either. Except that I called it a journal because I was in college and that seemed more age appropriate. I was also fairly pretentious. Which became even more evident to me earlier this week as I found myself reading old entries aloud to my best friend who, in reorganizing his house had found his, too.

Soon enough, I couldn’t even hear him over my own laughter. It may have been running across this particular entry: I retract all that I’ve said.

It’s hard to take something like that seriously. In those days, every decision seemed fraught, each choice so monumental. We didn’t realize how young we were, how easy to make changes. It seems to me now that the choices matter more and we consider them less.

After we spoke, I made my way to a tango class.

I know, I know. If you know me, you’ve reread that sentence twice. I was talked into it by friends, convinced that it was going to be something aerobic. It wasn’t. Instead, it reminded me of being in my middle school gymnasium learning how to square dance. This time, gliding across a just-waxed wooden floor, my hands pressed into the chest of a stranger, I was told to lean forward, to allow myself to follow. The trick, I learned, is that you cannot look at your feet.

If I was still keeping a journal, I’d make this into a heavy handed metaphor.


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