At precisely 4:07 p.m., the clouds seemed as dark as B flat piano key, the wind seemed as fierce as an grasslands predator mid-pounce, and my prospects seemed as dim as a fluorescent light bulb just turned on. But I got brighter, carried in the arms of the vigorous American folk dance, prevalent on the Eastern seaboard, known as "contra dance." (Look it up.) The exhilarating yet familiar throb of each move hitting my body - swing with your neighbor on the side, pull by through the blisters, dosido while spinning like a tornado, arms twisting wildly - was neon against the dull premise of the day. Faces swirled across my vision in a swarm, up and down the set and back, towards the cathartic band blasting from the top of the hall, and slowly they blurred into one huge smiling presence, there to catch me after the craziest of flourishes.
This coming from me, the girl who's never seen an elliptical and cowers under her blankets at the thought of a Sunday morning jog. This coming from me, the girl who can't stand the erosive noise of a rowing machine and gets her feet tangled in the endless straps. Regardless, today's movement sucked the pain out of my neck like a reversed vampire and sucked the darkness out of my mood like a vacuum. It magnified the profound belief in humanity held my so many ex-hippie heirs, the flower grandchildren. Most of all, it inspired the weight on my chest to get in shape, so it got up and ran away without so much as a "time me."
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