Oh my god, please, if we’re doing aerobics together and you can’t keep the beat, can you go to the other side of the room or stand behind me so I don’t see you? Listen, I’m no dancer. I’m clumsy and awkward. But I’m not looking in the mirror feeling lastima for myself, I’m looking at you and wanting to put you in my pocket because your bones aren’t moving the way your brain is telling them to. This isn’t something I can’t handle.
You make me sad, dear friend at bootcamp. My tear-ducts are having the real workout while you wiggle completely out of rhythm. Your arms are flailing, your legs are goofy. I know it’s about the burn and not about the groove, but you look so desperate, always one note off, like you’re running behind, like you’re saying “wait for me, sound!” And why isn’t the song fucking waiting for you?!?
I want to abandon my exercise so I can keep the beat for you. I’ll be your own personal metronome so that you can sync up with the music of your life. So that you can be the ballerina of your dreams.
p.s. I look nothing like this working out.