For the past two Mondays, I've joined a couple of friends at a "country fusion" class at the YMCA. My membership at Thomasville's YMCA had, up until this point, been a really nice monthly donation; I've been a handful of times with Jordan, but truthfully and not very shockingly? Gyms aren't my thing. And it's not for lack of trying; we've had memberships before. Gold's Gym in Tallahassee. The rec center in Birmingham. (The rec center I actually enjoyed because there was an indoor track. I truly don't know anywhere in Thomasville with the capacity for an indoor track.)
I just don't know what I'm supposed to do at a gym. I'm far from an athletic person, but if I'm going to be forced into athleticism, I'd prefer an element of competition, a game of some kind. In college, Jordan and I both played intramural sports. I was terrible, but I loved it. Please, make me pull some flags or catch a kickball any day of the week, but do not make me run on a treadmill. What is even the point?
My attitude is obviously less than stellar, which is why I stopped going to the gym and instead settled into a walking routine and did that 30-days of yoga thing way back in January. Then a friend called me out on Instagram and invited me to this country fusion class she'd stumbled upon at the Y. I had no earthly idea what a country fusion class might entail, but she said it was fun and they played Sara Evans' classic hit "Suds in the Bucket," so I was sold.
On the Monday night of my first class, it hit me that I'd never actually been to a fitness class before. Not a single one, ever. I'd looked into Jazzercise, but never got up the guts to go. I've done yoga and barre thanks to DVDs and YouTube, and I took a jogging class in college. But a room with mirrors like the ones you see on TV? That's a no from me, dawg.
This is, it should be noted, why friends are important. I would never in a million years have gone to a class alone. I can do all sorts of things by myself: go to a movie, eat out at a restaurant, walk around my neighborhood, drive to mastermind retreats and fly to foreign countries, but walk into a class at the YMCA by myself? Absolutely not.
But thanks to my friend's invitation and initiation, I went. I stood in the back row and quickly realized "country fusion" was a synonym for line dancing, and I am a terrible dancer. In college, my social club participated in something called Jamboree. (Please don't make me explain it to you.) There were choreographed dance moves, and I had to stay after each night to relearn everything alongside the other terrible dancer in our brother club. It was not at all humiliating.
As Meghan Trainor's "No Excuses" began to blare over the room's speakers, I mimicked the instructor's steps, tripping over my feet and following one or two beats behind. I'd have it for a few minutes, then get lost. My fellow country fusion friends clapped along to the beat while somehow also maintaining the footwork, which in my mind made them capable of becoming Meghan Trainor's professional backup dancers.
Here's the thing: I was so, so bad, but I was having so much fun. I was the worst one in the class, by far, but I was breaking a sweat and laughing at myself, and I didn't give up. If I missed a step, I'd take a second and wait until there was a step I knew. I was exercising, and I wasn't afraid to be bad at it.
By the time "Boot Scootin' Boogie" came on, I was an absolute mess, but it didn't matter. No one cared... and I always care. I am competitive and strive for excellence in almost every part of my life. I want to be seen as competent and capable. Let me be absolutely clear: There is nothing competent or capable about my performance in a Monday night line dancing class at the YMCA. Not one thing.
I drove home this past Monday in a great mood because I guess Reese Witherspoon was right about endorphins. My life is stressful and my brain doesn't stop, but it turns out when I'm trying to follow the leader and learn the box step, my brain can't think about The Bookshelf or staff relationships anymore. It doesn't have room. All it can focus on is one step after the next, and I think that might be a grace.
So I am really bad at something, and I'm doing it anyway. I'm not sure, but I'm wondering if there's a holiness to it, if an admission of incompetence and incapability is actually sacred. It weirdly feels like it, which makes my 5:30 Monday country fusion class a bit like church.
Isn't that funny? Twerking in church. Who knew?
