Ecstatic Dance? Um, no thank you.

Just Zumba please, thanks.

I look like a hippie. A hippie clearly in her 40s and very clearly not the vegan kind, but still. I have tattoos and don’t brush my hair as often as I probably should. I visibly space out, often. I will never, ever throw away my sandals.

Because of this, I often get invited to experiences that deeply appeal to hippies.

One of the types of things people think I would love is dance…events? They’re not classes, or rehearsals, or well-established styles like salsa or tango, but rather “spiritual” experiences with lots of improv and encouragement to “move in whatever way feels right to you” (well if that’s the task, laying in bed feels super right).

Perhaps I’d like to try my best at being a whirling dervish, or re-enact, through interpretive dance, my complicated relationship with my father?

Or how about some audience-participation experimental theater?

Oh, my goodness. Really, no, thank you.

Thank you for the invitation but I think I’ll pass this and every other time.

I’m not against others participating in these events, and if they’re enjoying themselves, then I am truly happy for them. But the one time I tried attending something like it was with my sister probably 20 years ago. She couldn’t stop laughing at my visible discomfort: “You look like a judgey asshole.”

Where does such discomfort with a lack of planned activity and outcome come from? I do not know. Sarah On Paper should be perfectly content swirling around like she’s on drugs at Woodstock. But it’s so agonizing I almost can’t stand it. Maybe age will shake it out of me eventually.

Alas, I need group activities to stay happy and healthy, and in this City of Hippies where I live have found my place: aerobics class.

Well, “aerobics class.” There are different classes, but they’re basically all established instructor-led strength and cardio routines set to too-loud music.

Why am I okay with one and not the other?

I think it’s because, free of expectation, I can classify it however I want: meaningful, or meaningless. I don’t have to “perform” transcendence or talk afterwards about what it meant to me; I just have to keep up and try to not step on anyone.

Now that’s what I’m talking about!

And with that pressure off, it’s been very meaningful, indeed. I’m doing something with other people who are all automatically low-key nice to each other but not intense about it. We are all there for a clear purpose, and that is to exercise our bodies. We’re too sweaty and out of breath for a sharing circle, but we’re sharing the experience, nonetheless, and it’s ecstatic. We might as well all be getting high together.

Grownup parallel play is where it’s at, for me.

My body is in pain (so, so much pain — I’ve been way too sedentary for a while now), but it’s amazing how immediate the effect has been on my mental health. Suddenly I can think of things to do that aren’t lying in bed, and can actually start progressing on things that have been on the back burner but that I’ve felt powerless to move.

Speaking of those things, I’ve finally started another Substack! It’s in Spanish, and it’s about the magic that purposeful organization and decor has on one’s physical environments.

There are lots of blogs like that out there, but not a whole lot in Spanish, and even fewer that take into account the fact that many, many dwellings around the world are not made the way they are in the US.

Anyway, if you’d like to subscribe to that as well (it’s also free), I’d be eternally grateful: corazón de tu casa.

So that’s it for today, folks. If you need me, I’ll be rolling around in Bengay for a while.