When I opened that box of possibilities, that I could simply take a dance class, I found many questions inside -- some practical, some unwarranted -- and some fearful.
First, who were those guys teaching the teenagers' class? Do they even teach adults? Because as much as I longed to get into class, I really wanted to be in their class. What if they didn't teach adults? Where would I turn?
So I found their names on the schedule. Okay, so I can take their class. Next question.
But, but, but -- what would I wear? Do I have to wear a leotard? (Ugh.) Do my old dance shoes fit after two pregnancies? Will I be the oldest one there? Will I look lumpy and uncoordinated?
How will it feel?
And for the next 3 weeks (we're up to week 6, now), I imagined myself walking into that studio. My "self talk" was along the lines of "What was the worst thing that could happen? Just do it. What's the big deal?"
Well, I had identified a visceral fear: that I would cry. That standing in front of a wall of mirrors and remembering childhood longings would crush me. I feared tears because my body yearned for dance so badly, and I had denied it to myself for such a very, very, long time.
I imagined myself flat on the floor in a puddle, as if the sky had opened and rained down on me.
What if THAT happened?