So remember my squeaky, sexy, humiliating/empowering march across the gym floor? Remember how I said there was a photographer present? Rest assured, he captured everything.
When I got the link to the Facebook album full of evidence, I cringed. I was in a bar bathroom, and I was sure that what I was about to see documentation of my poor dancing skills, lack of coordination, and unseemly spastic movements.
There’s also the danger, with events like this, of a jarring confrontation with your true image. This is not a Photobooth session, where you can tilt your head just so, add a sepia filter and presto change find the best version of yourself to share with the world. This album is some objective shit, in-the-moment, candid as can be, and you better believe I approached with trepidation.
I skimmed, looking for my tell-tale neon orange t-shirt and found this:
And I’m like… okay, that’s not too terrible. I don’t look too off beat, too out of step. Obviously, I’ve got nothing on the adorable 5-year-old on the right. But then there’s this:
And I’m like… oh, hell no. Do I really look like that? I’m never leaning over again. Or wearing that shirt. Or going out in public. And there’s the same child putting me to shame! But then there was this:
And I’m like… dammmmn, that’s what I was hoping I looked like! This is me, alone in the middle of gym, grooving out. I look ridiculous, but I look healthy and happy and strong.
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