Kimberlee K.

“Do you want to try Jazzercise with me tonight?”

After hearing this question from my mom on a weekday afternoon, my immediate reaction was to laugh. Not callously, but curiously. A giddiness bubbled in my stomach that was reminiscent of being asked to dance by a middle school boy—it was both exciting and slightly embarrassing.

I hadn’t even realized Jazzercise was still around, and I couldn’t imagine what it looked like now. I’d only seen it referenced in 80’s movies and as a punchline in standup comedy, so my understanding of it still included high cut leotards and neon sweatbands.

“Okay,” I said to my mom, who was just as curious as I was. “Why not?”

At 6:00pm, I tied my shoes and then compulsively looked in the mirror, twisting to look at my butt, my waist, and my thighs. I pulled on my shirt, wondering if it was too baggy or not baggy enough. I smoothed down the flyaways of my ponytail and grazed my index finger over the skin of my face as I checked for breakouts. I was nervous, but I was used to it. I had never exercised without feeling nervous.

In middle school, I used to run as fast as I could. Trying to make the most of the 20-minute runs assigned to us on Fridays. My face would glow red and my chest would ache, but I wanted a good grade. I ran like my life depended on it, watching other kids lap me without a care in the world.

In the winter of my freshman year of high school, as part of my conditioning for the upcoming softball season, I did interval training in the gym with my team. As we ran sprints, our sneakers squeaking with each turn of the heel, girls heaved over the trashcans, their faces pale and their legs weak. I kept running, worried I might get sick, but more worried about getting in trouble, about not doing a good job, about making a mistake.

Shortly before the season started, a family friend told me I looked “skinny.” The word popped a bubble of innocence I didn’t even know was there. Suddenly I was aware of my body. Suddenly I could love my body, and I could hate it.

After that, every kind of exercise I did was in an attempt to hear that word again, convinced it was the only compliment that mattered.

I ripped workout routines out of magazines that promised me “the ultimate beach body” in under 30 minutes. I started running and doing yoga. I joined a gym and went through spurts of attending regularly. I studied women on television, learning what was deemed beautiful and what wasn’t, what was acceptable and unacceptable. Then I looked in the mirror and put what I learned into practice. Pinching and pulling, like I was a dress that could be altered. I still wanted a good grade.

As I stood in the Jazzercise parking lot with my mom, I anxiously pedaled my feet, lifting my heels off the ground one after the other. The building in front of us was old. I’d driven past it most of my life without even realizing it was there. The paint was chipped and the parking spot lines on the asphalt were faded. I could hear faint music playing through the open door.

I walked slightly behind my mom, relieved to have her with me. For the six years I had a gym membership, my least favorite part was walking in. I was always worried people were staring at me and worried they weren’t.

As we got closer to the door, I heard multiple conversations echoing off the walls, the voices bright and friendly.

“Hi!” a woman said as soon as we crossed the threshold.

She was wearing neon orange nylon shorts, and a black tank top that said “Jazzercise” in enthusiastic script font. Her hair was short, and her eye liner dark. She asked us to sign in, pointing to a three-ring binder sitting open on the table.

I smiled as I picked up the pen, skimming the list of names already signed in with beautiful cursive writing, and I noticed that no one had written their last name.

We walked to the other side of the room, where a row of chairs was set up against the wall. Towels, hand weights, and water bottles were piled on the seats, acting like makeshift lockers or cubbies. My mom and I each picked a chair and unloaded our things, then smiled nervously at each other.

Looking around the room, I saw women my mom’s age and older, wearing leggings and t-shirts. Their hair was in low ponytails or cut short and out of their face. They were all women I felt like I’d seen before. Women I would pass by at the grocery store, or the post office, or in the carline at one of the local schools. They walked over and greeted one another, asking, “how was your week?” They sat down to drink water, unpack their bags, and tie their shoes. They said things like “how are you dear?” and “you’ll never believe this.” They stood up and stretched. There was an ease in the room that I was unfamiliar with, and I realized it was because they were not performing for anyone, they were just here for class.

They were mothers taking their hour before dinner. They were grandmother’s staying in shape. They were women from my neighborhood, getting together with their friends, and doing something for themselves.

A man stepped to the center of the stage. He introduced himself as John and welcomed me and my mom to class. The women turned and clapped, smiling warm smiles. He made a joke that he probably started teaching before I was even born.

“Just follow along,” John said encouragingly, “we’re all just trying our best.”

My hands, which I hadn’t realized were clenched, released. The music started and John marched. He cued us when to change direction and when to start a new pattern. He gave modifications for different moves, specifying “low impact” and “high impact.” High impact implied jumping, skipping, or running, indicating more pressure being put on the joints.

To me, there was only one option. I wanted to impress the teacher, and everyone else in class. I wanted to prove that I could do it, that I belonged there, that I was in good shape. But as I looked around the room, I saw each woman choose the modification based on their own body. Going “high” on some and then unashamedly staying “low” on others, moving slowly and intentionally when needed.

Occasionally, the music picked up, hitting peaks that made some of the women cheer.

“Wooo!!” they said as they waved their arms and clapped their hands.

The noise startled me at first because it wasn’t cued, but I quickly realized that it didn’t need to be. It seemed to come from somewhere other than memory or routine. Hearing it felt like running through the sprinklers at my childhood home, like taking the first bite of birthday cake, like peeking into the living room on Christmas morning, it was joy unfiltered.

“You know this one,” John said to the room at the start of one song, and a handful of women cheered. Without waiting for him, they started moving their feet in memorized choreography. I looked at them and then up at him, wanting to be in the loop, and he invited me.

Near the end of the class, we picked up our hand weights for the strength training section, and I was surprised by how winded I was. My posture slanted with fatigue while the women around me stood tall, holding their weights at the ready.

“Modify where and when necessary,” John said, “and if you don’t want to use weights today, don’t!”

Some women never lifted their weights above their shoulders, some could only use one at a time, and some balled their hands into fists and simply used the weight of their arms. No one judged, they just moved with the music.

At the end of the hour, one of the class managers came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

“You did great today,” she said, and it made me want to cry.

Even though she was supposed to say it, even though it was part of her job, I took her words as a huge compliment. I told her I loved it, that I had so much fun, and I meant it. I didn’t want it to end.

A few days later, my mom and I showed up for another class, and we were met with the same warm greeting.

At 31, I was easily one of the youngest in the class, but somehow, I still blended in. Just another woman there to dance.

After a few weeks, I started to learn the routines, and could anticipate new patterns with new music. I got lost in the choreography, feeling light and free. I floated around the room, unafraid.

“Thank you for always smiling,” Jenn, another instructor, told me after one class. “It makes me happy to look out and see you smiling.”

I hadn’t even realized I was smiling; I was just having fun.