Why Joe Biden Is My Hero This Week

I was driving to work on Friday morning when I heard a report on NPR about Vice President Joe Biden's recent trip to Atlanta, GA.  He was giving a talk at a local synagogue, and the moderator asked him about his intentions in the 2016 Presidential race.  Now I'm willing to bet money that he's been asked this over and over again, and I'm sure that there could easliy be a canned political answer to that question.  But Mr. Biden gave a response that really caught my attention.  Here's the video of it.

  In response to the questions, he says, candidly, "The most relevant factor in my decision is whether my family and I have the emotional energy to run...  Unless I am able to devote my whole heart and whole soul to this endeavor, it would not be appropriate...  There is no way to put a timetable on that."

How remarkable!  Those words gave me such a soaring respect for Mr. Biden.  I don't think anyone would argue, since losing his son Beau to cancer just this past May, that he's not entitled to a little emotional space.  But how many of us would be willing to be vulnerable enough to admit the need for that kind of space and then brave enough to actually claim it!?  There seems to be this expectation in our lives that we be superhuman.  When the time or opportunity arrives to do something potentially advantageous, we are pressured to seize it - regardless of our readiness or our ability to handle the repercussions of it.  We get lost in the thrust of carpe diem, and forget that sometimes, the timing just isn't right.

Do I think Joe Biden would make a great president?  I absolutely do.  But I absolutely respect his need for more emotional time and space.  Furthermore, I don't want our country in the hands of someone who isn't able to devote full attention to the job.  

To say, "I wish I was ready; I want to be ready, but I'm just not" is, to me, the ultimate act of courage.  It shows vulnerability, yes, but more importantly - it show tremendous strength and wisdom.  That is a person who knows who he is and what he is capable of.  It is a person who respects his own boundaries and recognizes his limitations.  That is a person, who, when he is ready, would, in my opinion, make an excellent leader of the nation.  I can't help but respect and admire his courage.

I think we could all take a lesson from Vice President Biden.  Sometimes, things just aren't right - no matter how good they look on paper.  We need to listen to our heart and trust our gut, because no matter how great it seems, forcing something never works out well.

Will he ever be ready?  I suppose that's up for Mr. Biden and his family to figure out.  

Will the opportunity arise again?  If it's meant to be, then yes.  One thing I have learned is that life has a way of putting us where we need to be.  If that is meant to happen, it will happen somehow.

And while I get where he is coming from, I do have to say, if Mr. Biden were to decide he did, after all, have the emotional energy to tackle the job, he would have my vote!

How Perfectionism Steals Joy

 I do not expect perfection from others.  In fact, it's the imperfections that usually endear people to me.  When they show vulnerability and humanity, it is practically irresistible.  (That's a whole topic for another blog post, though.)

Despite embracing the imperfection of others, I have been tyrannical with myself - demanding perfection in thought, word, and deed for years now.  Any interaction or event that I deemed sub-par was subject to constant scrutiny by that lovely inner critical review board.

My satisfaction with nothing less than perfection has ruined, or nearly ruined, some potentially amazing experiences.  One day in particular comes to mind:


My sweetheart at the time and I decided to take a rare day off from work and sneak off to the beach for the day. Can you imagine anything more perfect? I was going to take him to the beach where I spent most of my childhood where I would show him one of my favorite spots on earth. He was looking forward to getting his toes in the sand, eating hushpuppies, and taking a walk in the surf. It sounded so lovely that I could hardly wait!

The morning came and started off shakily.   Aren't you going to...? Why didn't you...? I thought we were...?   Nothing beyond the normal scrambling of two adults early in a relationship road tripping together, but every exchange turned the crank on my already tightened nerves. That trip felt significant. Important. Pivotal. I was taking the lead - being the tour guide for the first time - and it had to be perfect. My companion was important to me, and I wanted to make him happy. Nothing less would do!

As we drove down east, I tried to shake myself out, to relax into the day, but the inner CRB had convened, and they were just getting warmed up.

This drive is too long. If you'd just taken us to xyz, we would be there by now. This music is tedious. I should have made a road trip playlist. 

On and on and on...

Finally, we made it to the shore and got our toes in the sand. It was mid-June, a beautiful sunny day, and for a moment, my mind was still. It's kind of impossible to find fault with a stretch of sand and the lovely vista of the Atlantic stretching out before you. We walked. We talked. We laughed.

At lunch time, I knew just where to take him for the perfect beachy meal. We drove the 30 minutes to a neighboring town where we sat down at a highly recommended little seafood cafe. We grabbed a table overlooking the harbor where we sat. For 10 minutes. Ten long, tense minutes while we waited for a server to come to our table. When she finally came, scowling, we asked for tea and hushpuppies and settled in. So did the CRB.

Why did you have to ORDER hushpuppies? Most places just bring them. What kind of place did you drag us to? Why are we waiting so long to be served? 

I was a wreck. When the hushpuppies arrived, they were laced with vile jalapenos - inedible to both my companion and me. He had asked for one thing. ONE THING on this trip, and I had failed to make it happen. I excused myself to the restroom, because I didn't want to burst into tears at the table. 

What is wrong with you? Crying over small globes of cornmeal? Get it together!

I wasn't crying over the hushpuppies, of course. It was so much deeper than that. The trip, which I was in charge of planning, was not perfect. It HAD to be perfect! I pulled myself together, and headed back to the table.  I knew of a better place - we'd go there for dinner.  I would make it up to him.  The day would be saved.  I smiled and chatted, but my mood cast a pall over the rest of our meal.

The afternoon was really lovely.  We poked around the town a bit, visited some shops, grabbed ice cream at the strangest, most charming little parlor and gift shop.  We bought fudge from  a 4 year old girl who was running the counter of her Grampy's store.  We found a spot on the shore where we set up our chairs and just soaked it in.  We swapped stories and enjoyed the view until the sun started to get low in the sky.

We headed back to the car, where we sat for a few minutes, watching the sun sink while we tried to get the sand off our feet.  He wanted to linger there, but I was getting worried.  The place I was taking him for dinner gets notoriously busy.  Since we were driving home that night, we really needed to get going if we wanted to get a table.  

We pulled up to a nearly empty parking lot.  That damned place was CLOSED on Wednesdays.

I sat there for a moment, to stunned to even be able to cry.  I didn't know what to do, except admit defeat.  I had tried to make the perfect day, but the day had beaten me.  I surrendered.

We got back into the car, drove a few blocks and found a little seafood dive.  We said down and almost immediately, a waitress swooped down with a basket of hot golden hushpuppies.  I swear, I heard a choir of angels sing.  I had never felt more relieved in my life.   As we dug into our meal, my nerves finally started to unwind a bit.  I had to laugh about the hushpuppy saga, but I was angry at myself.  

This was supposed to be a beautiful, perfect, romantic getaway day.  You ruined it by being so uptight.  Why can you not just RELAX?

Even in that "all's well that ends well" moment, I was incapable of accepting imperfection. I told myself it was because it was important.  It mattered.  But the truth was darker than that.  I've thought about that day often through the course of my recovery.  The signs of my misguided thinking were everywhere: controlling, care-taking, perfectionism.


My companion would later tell me that this day featured a pivotal moment for him - one where he felt complete and utter love, contentment, and joy.  It was the moment where we were sitting on the back of the car watching the sun set.  You know, the one I abruptly ended so we could get a table at the restaurant that wasn't even open?  Realizing that broke my heart a little.  I had missed his most wonderful moment because I was worried about freaking hushpuppies.

How many times have I wished I could go back and re-live that day knowing what I know now?  I missed the moment - not because of lack of love.  All my crazy-tense behavior came from my desperate need to produce a perfect day to show this person exactly how much he was loved.  So I'm glad, at the very least, that he felt loved.   But I missed the moment because I was fixated on the checklist in my mind.  I disregarded wonderful, because I was striving for perfect.  The comedy of errors that became this hushpuppy saga could have been a hilarious dinner party story that we'd tag-team tell for years to come, were it not for my need for perfection.

Perfection robs us of joy.

Now when I recall that story and the lessons learned from it, I instead steer my thinking to those moments of spontaneous joy.  They were there.  Tons of them.  And so I try to remember those, because in my life, I want joy.

So I abandon the hope for perfection.  Most of the time.

Footnote: this post has been written for a week, but I couldn't put it up because I had to find the perfect graphic to go with it.  I  guess old habits die hard.  Finally, I just grabbed one that was good enough.

Hey!  It's a process.  :-)

Act 28: Try Square Dancing

My friends Diane and Melissa and I went to a square dance earlier this year.  It was in a tiny little space - way too small for what we were trying to do, and the crowd was - how to say this? - not our peer group.  I had been Contra Dancing many, many, many years ago, and so I suggested to Diane that we give it a try.  There is a group - Triangle Country Dancers - who host regular dances throughout the area.  We found a date that worked for us and went to check it out.

According to Wikipedia, Contra dancing is "similar to square dancing, except instead of except instead of the square formation, it is danced in lines of couples, with every other couple facing up or down the hall."  The music is typically folksy.  The band for this dance consisted of a fiddle, banjo, and upright bass.  There was a caller who laid out the steps of the dance - and directed the dancers throughout.

The nice thing about Contra is that there are only a few steps to learn for each dance, and you get to repeat them many, many times during the dance.  So, for the uncoordinated and choreographically challenged folk like me, you have a chance to actually master the steps... eventually.

Lessons helped with the learning curve!

We started the evening with a short lesson to acquaint us with the basic steps.  It seemed pretty straightforward, so when it was time to dance, Diane and I jumped right in.

The attendees of the dance were all ages!  There was a pretty significant number of 20-somethings whirling and twirling each other all over the place.  There was also a large number of retirees there cutting a rug.  And in between those was a bevy of newbies of all ages.  I grabbed a partner, and lined up for the first dance.

It took me a little while to get the hang of the steps - and it was truly a social dance.  Each time I'd get my bearings, it would be time to switch to a new partner.  Each new partner had a different level of energy and a different manner.  Some of them would sling me all over the place - adding all kinds of kicks and twirls and such.  It was definitely a lesson in going with the flow!  I also spent most of the first dance completely dizzy from all the twirling.  I loved it!!   The dancers were, to a person,  patient and understanding.  Any time I would mess up a step or get lost, there was someone there to gently direct me back on track.  And talk about a workout!  By the end of the first dance, I was dripping with sweat and out of breath.  (Mental note: next time, bring a water bottle!)

I learned how to lean back a bit when your partner swings you - and how to relax my death grip when I was holding on for dear life when my partner would swing me.  I learned that it was perfect acceptable to grin like an idiot when moving from partner to partner (like they could stop me!), and that if I wanted to dance every single dance - there were plenty of willing partners.  As Diane said, the whole atmosphere was playful.  These folks were out to have fun, and I'm happy to say we were right there with them.

This guy in green was so energetic!  
He also almost kicked me in the face.  (Not his fault - totally mine.)

I enjoyed myself immensely, but I think Diane has found her people - she could have Eliza Doolittled it and danced all night!  It was very uplifting to be around so many happy people, and I look forward to going back.  Heck - maybe eventually, I'll even let my partner dip me...  !

Act 7: Do a Police Ride Along

Ready for action!

I feel like I need to be honest and say that I did this act Rhonda-style.  That is, I did it with purpose and with the intention to learn, but also in the safest way possible.  Don't judge!  Just because I decided I wanted to go on a Wednesday morning instead of a full moon Saturday night doesn't make this any less interesting.  Well, ok.  It doesn't make it any less interesting to me.  

First let me begin by saying that the fine folks at the Durham Police Department were extremely helpful, gracious, and accommodating when it came to setting up my ride-along.  It took a little while for my application to wend its way through the bureaucracy, but once it did, it was very easy to set an appointment.

I showed up at 8:45 on a Wednesday morning and was quickly introduced to my guide for the day, Officer Graham.  I was pleased to hear that he had actually volunteered to have me along. Turns out, he was a great partner for the day and a natural teacher.  

We began our day by wrapping some details from yesterday's patrol - an attempted suicide.  EMS and the police were able to assist the victim, saving her life.  I was surprised to hear that in addition to helping to intervene in the crisis, the PD also worked with the victim and her family to get help and support after the event.  While he was inside the sub-station speaking the the victim's family, I surreptitiously took a few police car selfies.  

I think I was pretty intimidating here...

Life in the front seat is MUCH nicer than in the back, I imagine...

From there, we headed out on patrol.  This involved cruising through the neighborhoods in North Durham and being visible.  Officer Graham did this very well.  Every neighborhood we drove through - from the upscale Treyburn to the more down trodden housing projects - he would wave and speak to pretty much everyone we saw.  He explained that this was essential to his work.  Establishing relationships with folks in the community made investigation and enforcement much easier down the road.  I got the feeling that he was invested in the people he served.  That focus on the improvement of the community was something I would hear over and over throughout my time in the car.

As we drove around, Officer Graham explained the training involved in becoming an officer.  It was no joke!  Rigorous classroom work with frequent assessments, a ride along period and later supervised duty with two different seasoned officers.  There was one final hurdle an officer had to clear before being released on his own: a community improvement project.  During the apprenticeship person, each officer was expected to observe and come up with something - a suggestion or project - that would improve the communities they serve.  (Officer Graham's idea was to better label the buildings in apartment complexes, making residences easier to find.)  More evidence of building community.

Before too long, we got a call to go help out at an accident site.  EMS was on the scene already, but our blue lights were needed to help manage traffic around the accident.  I learned that accident scenes are some the most dangerous for officers and EMS workers because motorists are either A. really nosy and too busy rubbernecking to pay attention to driving or B. not paying attention at all and on auto-pilot or absorbed in their phones.  I witnessed first-hand close calls because of both these things.  (Be careful out there, people!!!)

Every car feels like a mobile office!

After the accident was cleared, we headed back out on patrol.  While out, we found a shady spot and Officer Graham worked on his reports.  He showed me the computer system that DPD uses to manage all the reports, databases and information.  It was quite something!  We could see where all the cars on patrol were, and any time we got a call, the details for that call would automatically populate.  As we drove around, the GPS told us where we were (in case we had to report it quickly to dispatch) and what, if anything, was going on around us.

Being an officer involved driving around - a lot.  After we had been in the car for about 2 hours, a call came up at an address familiar to Officer Graham.  "Let's go stretch our legs."  The situation was an elderly gentleman who called the police to complain about a problem in his neighborhood.  When we arrived, we found another officer already on the scene.   We went inside and it was not what I expected at all!  It felt like a social call.  Officer Graham asked a few questions to ascertain what the trouble was.  (In a nutshell, kids are hoodlums.)  It became clear pretty quickly that what this citizen really needed was company.  We and the other officer stayed and chatted with him for a few minutes.  He brought out photos of his children and his grandchildren.  He told us how sad he was since his wife passed.  This was not what I imagined police work to be, but as we headed back to the car, Officer Graham explained that there was a fair bit of social work involved.  

The morning was pretty quiet, overall.  We helped direct traffic around a stranded motorist.  We drove through a few run down apartment complexes, and Officer Graham told me stories about some of the crazy things he has seen.  We talked about the biggest problem in Durham ("Gangs.  Black on black crime.") and the rising homicide rate (20 in the 7 months of this year.  Last year, we had 24 total.).  He told me about how drugs - particularly heroin - are crippling some of the neighborhoods in town.  

Almost on cue, a call came through.  There was a 24-year old man found non-responsive, a heroin overdose, at the Red Roof Inn.  As we watched the case unfold, Officer Graham explained that the drug Narcan meant that more people came back from overdoses.  While it saves the lives of the people who are in danger, apparently they are usually pretty belligerent and angry to find out their high was "ruined."  "They come to swinging," he told me.  I cringed while we headed toward the call.

However, I was saved by a fender bender!  Instead of joining the melee at the Red Roof Inn, we went to handle a minor traffic accident.  (Hooray!!!)  

That was the last call of the morning, and so we headed back to Headquarters.  "If you want some real excitement, come back at night," Officer Graham advised.  "You know, the freaks come out at night." 

Thanks.  I will keep that in mind.

As we drove back to the police station, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the folks who are out on patrol every day and night, keeping us safe.  They see the best and, more often, the worst of human behavior.  They have to react on a moment's notice to a wide range of situations - alternately being calming and nurturing or authoritative and menacing - or something in between.  They put themselves in danger every day, and they do it with a sense of pride and concern for the community they serve.  The teacher in me understands where that calling comes from, and the scaredy-cat in me greatly appreciates that they do it, so I don't have to.  

Still, I have to admit, it was kinda badass to get to pretend for a day.

This is 40

It happened.  I have turned 40.  I'm still working my way through the 40 Acts, but it felt like this occasion deserved reflection.

The actual day was everything I had hoped it would be: full of friends and family, good food, free-flowing beverages, and some very very very bad karaoke.  Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I will share some of the photos that have been shared with me...

Selfie station!

My Uncle Steve spent all day cooking Mr. Porky here.  

My SisterFriends took such good care of all the little details!

Sister Friend Heidi made a slew of owl lanterns to beautify things.
This is the "Miss Rhonda" owl, on account of her blue eyes and sparkly tiara.

Sister Friend Meldy made these ADORABLE owl cupcakes.
They tasted even better than they looked.

In addition to doing almost all the party set up,
 My Mom made this beautiful photo book.  

Did I mention there was a bouncy house?

My backyard was completely transformed.
(Thanks, Amy for the great photos!)

This happened.

And this.

The CIA Girls were in full effect!

Making an extra big Birthday Wish.

Honestly, I think I expected to feel different once it was all said and done.  But, aside from a little headache from too much drink and too little sleep, I felt like the same ol' Rhonda.

The next morning, I found these little messages at the selfie station...

In the week since turning 40, I have come to realize that I am anything but the same ol' Rhonda.  I barely recognize the person I was just a few short years ago.  This is a good thing.

I couldn't wish for anything more.

Act 10: Get a Tattoo

For a while, I was under the impression that there was a certain window in a person's life where it was "acceptable" to get a tattoo.  If pressed, I'd have to say that it was probably during college, but most definitely in the 20's.  And certainly not something a grown ass woman (GAW) should be doing.  I was always kind of interested in getting something, but there was nothing I felt strongly about enough to get it permanently emblazoned on my body.   That, and it looked like it would hurt.  I had visions of me going to get inked and crying my eyes out - unable to stand the pain and chickening out with it half done.  (Just like Phoebe did on Friends.)



 Still, the idea kept coming back to me again and again.  So when I started to make my list, "Get a tattoo" was in the top 10. It took me forever to make up my mind.  A quote wouldn't work because it would have to be too big.  I didn't want anything in color.  I didn't want anything too cutesy.  Or pretentious.  I wanted something meaningful, but not too abstract.  I collected images for about 2 years, agonizing on just the right thing.  And then, once you decide WHAT to get, I had to figure out WHERE to get it.  Blah, blah, blah.  It was exhausting!!!

I finally got some clarity when I broke down and consulted an actual tattoo artist.  T.J.  at Dogstar Tattoo was so helpful!  First, he very subtlely and gently steered me away from the cliches.  He also advised me to go commit to something - no hidden messages or anything like that.  If it's important enough to put it on your body, it's important enough to be visible.  Finally, he advised me on body placement - what wears well and what doesn't, what will hurt more than something else.  He very patiently answered every question I had and asked me a few very insightful ones that helped direct me toward figuring out what it was I really wanted.

I pondered it for a few more days.  I sifted through my pinboards.  I looked at a WHOLE BUNCH of tattoo photos.  I tried to piece together elements of stuff that I liked, but nothing spoke to me.  That is until I stumbled upon the VERY FIRST photo I downloaded way back when I first started thinking about doing this.

I made an appointment with Meldy, and suddenly, it was on!

Ready to rock and roll!

It was not nearly as painful as I anticipated.

For the record, that's excitement - not pain.

Voila!  The finished product!

I settled on a variation of a symbol which - very appropriately - means "Courage."  (Well, "courage" or "I'm easier than I look."  My Celtic scholar wasn't 100% certain.  Eh.  Details.)

  The swirly design mirrors a doodle that I have been doing for years.  To me, it symbolizes the endless thinking, considering, pondering, fretting - round and round - that I am prone to.  But the two points reminds me that there comes a time when you have to have the courage to stop thinking and start doing.  It was the perfect metaphor for this whole experiment.

And I didn't even cry!

Act 27: Take a Ballroom Dance Lesson (Or Two!) On My Own

The purpose of this act was to get me out of the house and to do something active where I just might meet some new people.   I didn't realize it would challenge my entire notion about myself...

But first, some context: 

When I was six, my mom signed me up for gymnastics.  I remember being so excited to get dressed up in a leotard and go learn to be like Nadia Comaneci.  I was in a class with 5-6 other girls my age, and it didn't take long to realize I was different.  

While the other girls were learning cartwheels, "skin the cat" and other graceful tumbling skills, the teacher made me do log rolls, forward rolls and the very-creatively-named bar hang. It seemed unfair that the other girls got to do all the fun and graceful stunts,  while I was mostly earth bound.  Until I looked around at the girls in my class.  They did not look like me.  At all.  I was at least 4 inches taller than all of them - closer to the teacher's height than my classmates.  And while they all had the coltish, long, spindly legs and lithe torsos so common in little girls, I was shaped like a barrel with meaty arms and legs.  Yes. There was no denying it.  I was the fat kid.

6th Grade was particularly awesome.

All throughout my elementary school years, it was painfully obvious.  Not only was I chunkier than my classmates, but I was tall.  Tall enough to look down on the heads of the other kids.  When the teacher would line us up shortest to tallest - you guessed it - I was always last in line.  And to make matters worse, I wore old lady glasses.  And because I had unruly curly hair, my mom kept it cut short in an old lady hairstyle.  I looked so much like a middle-aged woman, I was often mistaken for a substitute teacher.  It was about as awesome as you think it would be.  Still, at that point, I hadn't entered junior high, so I though I was still pretty OK.

I will spare the details.  Suffice to say within the first week or two of entering 7th grade,  I was nicknamed "Hindenberg" by a particularly vile older boy.  The name didn't stick, but the impression it left on me sure did.  From that day on, I told myself that I was a gigantic clod.

 While all the other girls were this:

Graceful, lithe, lovely.

I was this:

Clumsy, solid, servicable

That narrative would go on to shape my view of my self for most of my adult life.  When the girls around me starting dating, I did it as little as possible.  I would allow myself to show interest in someone only if he liked me first - and trust me, that was slim pickings.  There was one boy in 10th grade who was just lovely.  He was kind and sweet, and even though I was about 4 inches taller than he was, we were headed toward being a couple.  That is, until one of the guys in chorus class pointed out that I looked like his mom standing next to him.  He stopped talking to me after that.

Rather than mope, I instead decided to cultivate an image of sarcastic wit and intellect.  I hung out with guys, but they were only friends.  I became intimidating to scare off those who might have a chance to reject me.  And all the while, I told myself if I were more graceful, more dainty, more ladylike, things would be different.  But I wasn't, so they weren't.

This went on for a very long time.  I  set very strict parameters for any guy I would consider dating. (In hindsight, I was using the completely WRONG criteria, but what the hell did I know?)  As the years went by and relationships started and ended, I realized that maybe I wasn't so hideous after all. Turns out, beauty really IS in your attitude.  And as I got older, I started to appreciate what I did have, rather than dwell on what I didn't.  But I still thought that a man had to be a certain type to be able to "handle" a woman like me.  And I still couldn't get over the idea that I was an clumsy, graceless, clod.

Hence the dance lessons.

My thinking was that if could learn a few good dance moves, maybe I would be more graceful and less awkward.  I read a great blog post entitled 12 Life Lessons I Learned from Dancing, and so it went on  the list.

I showed up for my first lesson with a little trepidation. There were other couples out on the floor - rehearsing for a showcase that was coming up - and they all  looked... amazing!  So polished and graceful. I felt like an elephant in dancing shoes.  This is going to be comical, I thought to myself as I waited for my teacher.  

After a moment, two gentlemen came out to greet me.  One was tall and rakishly handsome.  The other, I realized upon standing, came up to my nose.  I smiled and introduced myself.  The tall man, Yuri, took my hand and asked if I was ready for my lesson, and I nodded, a bit unsure, but determined.  

"Excellent.  This is Dma, and he will be your teacher.  I hope you enjoy your lesson."  He then handed me over and strode off toward his waiting partner.  I blinked.

Dma introduced himself and asked me a few questions about what I wanted to learn.  I answered as best I could, but I was distracted.  I had come to try to learn to be graceful and less awkward, but looking at the reflection Dma and I cast in the mirror, all I could think was - He looks like my son.  Still.  I was here for a reason, and I was going to make the most of it. "I have to warn you, I am notoriously clumsy.  I will try not to hurt you," I laughed, self-consciously.  He laughed too, and told me not to worry.  I listened carefully while Dma explained some of the basics of what he would be teaching me.  He showed me how he would signal me when  it was time to turn or twirl or change directions.  I listened with skepticism, and couldn't imagine how that little man was going to handle this Amazon.    I shouldn't have worried.

It took about two minutes of chatting to learn that Dma, in addition to being a very kind and patient fellow, knew his stuff.  As he counted out the steps, he guided me through how to shift my weight from one foot to the next to move from one step to another.  When I would get too much in my own head worrying about what comes next, he'd distract me with idle chit-chat until my feet were following his.  He showed me which way to go with a gentle squeeze of his hand, or light pressure on my waist.  He had no trouble "handling" me at all.

By the end of our series of lessons, we were moving across the floor - if not effortlessly, at least with relative ease.  I couldn't believe the things he got me to do!  As I glanced at us in the mirror, all I noticed was how well we moved together, and how big the smile on my face was.  

It occurred to me that maybe the clumsy, amazonian narrative that I had been repeating to myself was just a fabrication.  Maybe it's time to start telling myself a new story.