Is Having No Self-Respect the Same as Clinical Depression?

So. When the summer class schedule came out for the school at which I was taking Zumba,* I noticed they were offering Old People Beginning From Dirt Ballet. Ok, so they called it "Adult Beginning Ballet," but we all know what they meant. And I was really excited, because somewhere I got it stuck in my head that I wanted to take ballet, but no one else offered it for People Who Suck.

I happily bought my first pair of adorable pink ballet slippers and showed up.

I was the only one.

Until another girl walked in, and it turned out she was a professional dancer (as in, "gets paid") for a company in Baltimore. And then I really wished I had been the only one who showed up.

But then she didn't come again, and I talked a friend into joining too, and it was all good and I learned how to plie without looking like a cow. And I took two more sessions and started to feel actually competent, even though whenever I demonstrate anything for Josh, he looks like he's in pain or has gas and says, "I'm really glad you're enjoying yourself."

So I was feeling pretty good about myself. And then class got canceled and I asked what my options were for make-up. The director said, "well. There's Beginning Adult Hip-Hop."

Heh heh. No.

"Well, then your best fit is probably Floor Barre."
Floor Barre?
"It's kind of like Pilates."

So Saturday morning I happily tripped off to Floor Barre.

And she was right. Floor Barre was like Pilates in the exact same way escargot is like potato chips.

The mean age of the class was 16, and the total weight in the room was roughly four pounds. The first thing we did, for a warm-up, was ten solid minutes of plank position, without a break, taking various body parts meant to hold you up off the ground. And it only got worse from there. There was even rolling.

I got home and slunk past Josh and laid on the floor on my face.

Josh found me out. "How was it?"
Mmmmmmmummmmmmph.
"Yeah. I thought so. I saw you limp past me."

It was ten years ago, but I'm not sure childbirth was that painful. And certainly not for as long. Buddy was born after two hours of labor. I still cried after every sneeze until this morning.

Josh said, "you know, the next time you're in a room of teenagers and 20-year-olds, you really shouldn't try to keep up."
What are you talking about? I'm only 28."
 "Um."
What!
"You're not 28."
Yes I am.
"No. You're not. You're 37. We've been married for 15 years. Buddy was born when you were 28."
WHAT???
"Yes."

Crap.

Now I guess I'm supposed to participate in the recital. With a costume. And tights. And I wonder, exactly when did my reaction to such things stop being, "no! I can't humiliate myself that way! What about my family! They need to be able to hold up their heads!" and start being, "heh. Heh. That would be really funny."






*because my doctor said I either had to exercise sometimes or take more anxiety medication. The anxiety medication makes me not sleep, and I really, REALLY like sleeping.