My aging body

Photo: Pixabay

Photo: Pixabay

I took a class last week with a teacher who happens to have worked with a bunch of famous people. He’s successful, and he looks the part. He’s a small, Mexican (I think) man with good looks and with an obscene level of physical fitness.

To demonstrate how fit he is and take a stab (presumably) at getting us close to some similar level of physical fitness, his class consists essentially in non-stop movement.

When you’re like me and you dance maybe once or twice a week, you will begin the class confidently, and then very quickly realise about ten minutes in that it’s possible you don’t come out of here alive, that joining the class was therefore probably a very bad idea, and that if you do survive, the whole ensuing business will be extremely painful.

The rhythm of this particular class was relentless. Not particularly difficult technically, but very fast, and in this sort of pop-indio-middle-eastern-Hans-Zimmer-level of sensitivity/style that seems to be the flavour of the decade in contemporary dance, for better or for worse.

And so once you realise ten minutes into this class that you might not actually make it to the first half-hour (but in the end you do), you wish you weren’t over thirty, and God you long for the days when this was easy.

Fatigue is dance too.

Diginity: perhaps less so as you get older.

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