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.