Rach vz. Zumba

I am not a good dancer. In fact, I am a terrible dancer. As much as I would love to be lithe and graceful, I am a back-row-of-the-chorus-embarrassment-at-weddings-so-clumsy-that-even-my-boyfriends-don't-want-to-dance-with-me kind of girl. It's not that I lack rhythm; I just lack the je ne sais quoi that allows my body to fall in synch with it.

Yet, I keep trying. God only knows why.

Tonight, after a long hiatus of classes, my gym offered Zumba, a Latin-dance-aerobics fusion meant to whittle an unsuspecting body into tip-top shape. I had a daily run to do, but I also needed a break in routine and so I decided to go for it. After a quick three miles on the treadmill, I headed to the workout room to give Zumba a try.

It wasn't that bad. I mean, I'm clumsy as hell but I have enough years of Show Choir and failed dance auditions/salsa and swing dates (see above for significant others who gave up on me) to know how to handle my two left feet. I pushed them. I focused intently, watched the instructor's feet and my own in the mirror and I did okay. I'm better with my arms, I think; my upper body seems always to be in the right place while my feet lag behind. Even the instructor said I was getting 80 % of the steps. That's not enough for Broadway but it IS enough for a first class--or at least, it should be.

But I am a perfectionist.

If I miss a step, I get mad. If I lag behind, I get mad. If I'm tired, I get mad. You get the idea. So, apart from learning the ropes of a new fitness craze, I spent the evening confronting walls--the same ones that haunt me in my training, and admittedly, in my life.

1) How can I push on when I'm frustrated/exhausted and every inch of me wants to quit?

2) How can I be satisfied with my progress rather than burdened (constantly) by the pursuit of perfection?

Theses are the  simple, unsatisfying answers:

1) Just keep moving.

2) One step at a time.

There has to be more. If these plaguing questions were so easy to answer, I would never have carried them this far into my life. 

With regard to the first, I'm slowly realizing that quitting just isn't an option. Especially not when I've made a commitment to a goal, a cause or a person. I'm not wired to walk away. As usual, there was a critical moment tonight, somewhere between a shimmy and a meringue (the dance, not the pie) where I was ready to walk out the door. We had a water break; I wanted to go for it. But I couldn't. So, I went back and salsa-ed with the best of 'em. I sucked, but I went back. And afterwards, when I was ready to collapse in to a sweaty, sleepy heap on the floor, I ran three miles (to complete my six for the day). I wanted to know what it felt like to run--even for a little while--LONG LONG after my body caved from exhaustion. I wanted to hold out, to push hard, push through for a little bit longer because, I think, things are always better on the other side. When it comes to the end of the line, I keep telling myself two things:

"Life is all about dedication and commitment."

"Lazyness is the act of giving up before you're tired."

I was tired alright. and I'm pretty sure that the marathon will require much more, that the exhaustion/pain combo will be much worse, but I'm also pretty sure that after exhaustion will come strength. I just have to hold on until then.

Which brings me to quandary number two, otherwise known as "how not to get pissed at myself". Perfectionism is equally one of my biggest faults and greatest strengths. The desire to be and do more, to be not just a better version of myself but the best drives me to do crazy things: move to foreign countries, enter grad school, run a marathon, learn to dance. Everything I do has the potential to go very very badly or to morph me into a stronger human being. 

Each new adventure in my life is an act of hubris against myself. 

The problem is that at the start, I am equally aware that I might fail (or am failing already as was the case with dancing and running) as I am tempted by the allure of success, the idea of being the kind of person who: writes books, lives in Paris, dates diplomats*, runs marathons. And then, I am immediately infuriated by my inability to have and do all of these things NOW. (or, more precisely, YESTERDAY!) I have no patience for my two left feet or SLOW split times. I want to be talented and graceful just because I attempt it. No such luck.

I am not kind to myself. When I find that I'm failing, I have two recourses: laughter or tears and much as it pains me to admit it, I usually succumb to the latter. I am NOT a "just enjoy the journey" kind of person. I like plane rides immensely, but apart from those, I like destinations; I thrive on results. And, I find it hard to let myself grow into things. I want to just have them in hand. So, the second question remains unanswered.

Even Zumba, it seems  isn't really about fitness or learning to dance (Okay, it is a little about my abs and my desire to be a wallflower-turned-ballerina) rather, it's an agonizing quest for discipline, patience and tolerance (with myself).

I guess I have to keep showing up. (I know, I know, that's half the battle). The other battle is just with me.