Finding your feet
by Swetha Amit
Image by Zyanya BMO for Unsplash
You stand there looking at your skinny fellow dancers performing a complicated dance move, one after another - put your chest out first, followed by your stomach, hips, and legs, in a continuous motion, like a snake standing upright. Goldeneye is playing from the speakers. Your dance master praises them as they demonstrate grace with their sculpted physiques. You chew your nails and grimace at the taste of your pink nail polish. Sweat trickles down your face as you dread your turn to perform this move. You glance at the clock, hoping the dance master will call for a break. Why couldn't you be blessed with a body that doesn't jiggle even when you move a little?
It's summertime in the millennium year. You are barely out of your teens and at the cusp of adulthood. Those reassuring sayings about shedding your puppy fat are comforting words to a chubby girl who must accept her body as it is. Your jeans are getting tighter. Your bra is unable to hold your boobs firmly. Your hips are endowed with a generous amount of weight. Every night, you squeeze the folds of your skin, wishing a magical knife would slice those blobs of fat. Every night, you stare at the women in the Baywatch series and find solace in a bowl of chocolate ice cream. You cry over your pillow every night and wake up with bloodshot eyes.
Every morning, you try on different clothes, deciding which ones will not elicit those long stares at your thunder thighs as a girl in your college labeled them. You decide to try this diet of vegetables and lentils and secretly throw the portions of white rice out of the window. Your protein intake is restricted in a strictly vegetarian household. At first, you feel lighter, your jeans loosen, and then you plateau. Your arms still feel flabby, and your hips still look broad. You take dance lessons after hearing about how one of your friends lost weight through dancing. Your heart does a little jig as you see a ray of hope to rescue you from the clutches of fat. You enroll for a dance class in your neighborhood that teaches Western forms like hip-hop, jazz, and ballet.
You are appalled by the sight of skinny women inside the dance studio, surrounded by mirrors on all sides. Marvel at their leggings and tank tops, groomed hair pulled back in a braid or a high ponytail. Gape at their flawless complexions. Not a blemish in sight. You cringe at your reflection with baggy gray track pants, a pink T-shirt, sneakers, and short hair tied into a ponytail. Your cheeks feel warm as the lights inside the studio highlight your shaggy eyebrows and blemishes. You wish the floor would swallow you into its secret abode where you can hide forever. Your heart beats faster, and you feel a lump in your throat. The faces around you are scrutinizing you head to toe. You almost feel naked. You return the dance master's kind smile as he introduces you as the new girl to the rest of the troupe of nine girls. They smile and introduce themselves. You manage a feeble hello, barely able to look them in the eye. Then, the dance master claps his hands and asks them to continue the practice for an upcoming recital. He asks if you have any background in dancing.
You have yet to be trained in any form of dance formally. However, your family always felt you had a flair for dancing by watching your feet move in a synchronized rhythm at family weddings. You shake your head and mumble no. He teaches you some simple steps to begin, where you move sideways and clap your hands. Nothing too fancy. He asks if you want to participate in the upcoming recital in two months. Your heart thumps loudly, and you nod excitedly. Being summer vacation, your schedule is open to making it for practices. You feel longer hours of dancing would help in shedding the weight faster.
You have lost a few inches after three weeks of breaking into a sweat at practice. Yet you still feel like a giant in comparison to your fellow dancers. So far, nobody has said anything mean to you. One of the girls complains about gaining a few inches around her waist. You glance at her flat stomach, raise your eyebrows incredulously, and feel familiar pangs of jealousy that entwine you in its coils. You wish you could pop a pill that melts your fat away overnight. You dream about the day when you find a slender version of yourself, wearing the clothes you always wanted—denim knee-length skirts with spaghetti strap tops, feeling on top of the world. Then, your daydreaming is ruined by the dance master calling out your name. Your heart feels like a thousand moths flapping your wings.
He plays that part of the song you've listened to numerous times that day. You'll never know how I watched you, Tina Turner booms in her husky voice. You close your eyes and stand rooted to the spot. The dance master gives the count. You are still frozen like some invisible force has tied a rope around you. He claps his hands. You clumsily put your chest forward, then your stomach. You miss a beat and fail five times. On the sixth attempt, your dance master shouts and asks you to open your eyes. He instructs you to look in the mirror while he improvises some mistakes. You look at your side reflection and gasp at the size of your hips and boobs. They seem more prominent than usual. Is it because of your period? You are unable to get the step right and burst into tears. The dance master softens his tone and asks one of his fellow dancers to help you in a separate corner.
The fellow dancer is kind, and she expresses her difficulty in getting this step initially right. You listen to her share her insecurities about her body weight and the measly meals of salads and fruits. You end up feeling sorry for her. She asks you to let go of your inhibitions and says a pretty girl like you shouldn't worry too much. You look at her disbelievingly, wondering if she was joking about calling you pretty. But her eyes exude genuineness. You realize you've made a friend amidst the disastrous day of sweat and tears.
Later, your dance master gives you a pep talk about not being so self-conscious. He praises your perseverance and eagerness to learn. He recommends watching a Hindi movie where the leading actress isn't skinny but still manages to dance gracefully. You watch the movie on DVD later at home, admiring her expressions, which showcase her love for dancing. You wonder why you have not watched this movie earlier. She's an actress you have always admired. You feel something stir inside you that day.
With time, your dance improves, and you learn to look at yourself in the mirror without feeling embarrassed. You learn to enjoy synchronizing your moves with the rhythm of the music. Your posture improves, and you gradually enjoy the camaraderie of your fellow dancers. You still experience that feeling of self-consciousness that pricks you every time you slip into leggings and tank tops. You learn to ignore it.
Several weeks later, you find yourself on stage with your fellow dancers, wearing blue pants with a silver sleeveless top and hair tied into a bun. You perform that step unabashedly and listen to the thundering applause from the audience. You feel your face flush, and goosebumps prick your skin. Your heart soars, and you feel like you are floating in space. You feel more beautiful and graceful as you twirl round and round. You entered the world of dancing to lose something. You have now gained a new identity as a good dancer. You know you have yet to attain that perfectly sculpted figure, but you no longer break into a sweat about it.
Swetha (she/her) is an Indian author based in California and a recent MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco. She has published works across genres in 50-plus journals, including Atticus Review and Toasted Cheese. She has received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations and is an alumnus of Tin House and Kenyon Review Writers’ Workshop.
Visit her website