By Wendy Litner

I am standing at the back of a salsa aerobics class, trying to be as invisible as wall-to-wall mirrors will allow.  I joined this gym months ago but have only had time to attend twice.  It’s not that I don’t want to go; it’s just that after such long, panty-hosed days, I can’t resist the comfort of my pajama pants.  As I find exercise to be a horrible chore that I must get done if I’m to keep fitting into my pants, I thought a dance class might be a fun way to take my medicine.  Besides, techno music happens to be a guilty pleasure of mine, and I haven’t gotten my $100-dollars-worth out of my LuLu’s yet. 

But, as Giovanni the instructor calls out steps that everyone else knows, it is obvious that I am out of my element.  My awkwardness is simply palpable. 

I try my best to follow, but I feel like Dirty Dancing’s Baby who has stumbled in on an underground scene of forbidden gyration.  The other dancers exude grace and sex appeal.  All I exude is sweat.    

 “You must feeeeeeeel the music,” Giovanni sings, instructing we’re about to take it from the top.  While all I really feeeeeeel is out of breath, I am determined to redeem myself. 

We begin the routine and, I can’t believe it- I just nailed the first count of eight!  My excitement seems to throw me off entirely, though, and I recover by resorting to my staple Bar-Mitzvah move of step clapping.  Overwhelmingly embarrassed, I look around to see if anybody has noticed but realize that not a single person is looking at me.  Giovanni himself is fixated on his ridiculously toned calves. 

Feeling completely protected in my isolation I finally let myself go.  I throw back my head, kick up my feet and start having the best time.  Although I still have no idea what I’m doing and my awkward movements can’t really be categorized as any genre of dance, the hour quickly turns into the respite I desperately need from my stressful day at the office.

My paranoia at work has led me to believe that my superiors agonize over my performance, carefully judging my every move.  By maybe, just maybe, people aren’t as concerned with my work; maybe they are really more fixated on themselves.  I always thought I needed to apply my work ethic to my exercise regime, but maybe what I really need is to apply my exercise ethic to my work.  Just as long as they don’t install wall-to-wall mirrors in my office.