5 Ramadan 1441

(Because my head hurts, I’m going to cheat and transcribe a story I shared on Instagram in February.)

Once upon a time, ten years ago, I moved to New York City.

And I found myself, on my own, in another big city.


So what’s a girl from Davie who recently married a man in Canada who could not travel to the United States because our immigration process targets people of a certain demographic supposed to do?

I signed up for kung fu classes.

And I went to those religiously.

I had no idea what I was doing, but I was doing it.

The kung fu instructor was super nice.

He was so nice, he’d email me if I missed a class.

A veteran New Yorker told me, Oh honey, I think he likes more than your kung fu.

And I realized—

Kung fu instructors don’t normally email students.

So then I was like, Well, that’s weird.

But I didn’t want to be a quitter!

So what if my siblings asked me to demonstrate what I learned, and I punched myself in the face?

And then, later that year, I had to have surgery.

Not because I punched myself in the face. The surgery was totally unrelated to kung fu.

The surgery—and the resulting infection—knocked me out for weeks.

Seeing I had a legit excuse to leave the class, I told the kung fu instructor.

And he was sad.

But I was not.

Because I discovered zumba.

The end. 


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