I’m taking a new exercise class. A kind of Afro funk workout. We dance for 30 minutes and then we do 30 minutes of weights. Bones, body, brains – all on fire.
The dance part is a combination of slides and slithers to loud African drumming music and those who are new to it tend toward the improv more than the choreographed. I think we look strong and agile and lovely. But I am nearsighted and leave my glasses off at the gym so all I see in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors is a vaguely familiar form that thrills me with how well it shimmies, twists and sways to the delicious beat.

When we’re finished, Kris, our long, lean teacher with blonde hair pulled into an early morning ponytail urges us to yell out, “Yay, body.” I think of how many years the women in this room have spent worrying about physical inadequacies. Too much of this. Too little of that. And here we are celebrating our wonderful moving parts and putting body image aside.

My favorite form of exercise is still yoga but I love reviving my inner dancer, even at 7:30 in the morning, before coffee. I try to remind myself the rest of the day to be grateful for a body that can keep up. Now I’m teaching my two-year-old granddaughter to say “Yay Body.” You can’t start too early to love it.