The Mirror.

I took another barre class today. It is a form of exercise that combines Pilates and ballet moves. I used to take ballet and tap lessons as a kid. I was also a cheerleader. Not to toot my own horn, but I was voted Most Coordinated and Graceful by a panel of inner voices back in 1981. Every year since then, I renominate myself and am never surprised when, again, I am presented with the title. Anyway, I digress. The class was led by a very fit, 50+ instructor who resembled Annette Bening.  It was all women, except for one man who came with his wife. He had a bit of a male porn star look to him ... a good head of hair trapped in a David Hasselhoff 80s style, a cheesy calf tat, muscle shirt on thick, undefined shoulders, an unseasonal tan and large teeth.

Nix the Shar Peis, add 23 years, a wide, terry cloth sweat band across his forehead 
and head to toe nylon/polyester. Yep, that's the guy. 

He was next to me and made a lot of noises. (It is not an easy class.) Forceful exhales, grunts, squeaks, moans ... loud enough to be heard over the special dance mix version of Call Me Maybe blasting from the mp3 player. I tried not to close my eyes, in fear that images of Most Watched XHamster would pop into my head ... Carly Rae Jepson and the Squeaky Grunter going at it in the janitor's closet of a Starbucks ... and break my concentration.

So I kept my eyes open. And I watched myself in the wall of mirrors. I liked what I saw. Chop off my head, and I am looking at the body of a 26 year old. A coordinated, graceful, decapitated young woman who, for the moment, is free from her inner voices.  Then, a myriad of mirror images washed over me, of blissful abandon in shades of blue, blinding me with their energy. I felt alive and happy. Then the music stopped.

I came home, took an Aleve, and took a nap. I had a wicked headache.