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"Would you like to dance?", he asked. I followed him to the floor and introduced myself.

I'd been on the fence about going: would I be up for the exercise? Square dancing was a thing I'd wanted to learn for more than a dozen years, but had never quite managed to. If I skipped the opportunity I was having, there'd be others. Still, I figured it would sting. I decided to try.

My second partner of the evening took me to the floor after the first break. With a few steps under my belt, I had at least a modicum of understanding of the motion. The right choice, I mused, even as I worked mentally through my calendar to confirm I'd be able to hit the upcoming 13 lessons.

Still, even if it was the right choice, it came with a trade off. In an idle moment I finally accepted as truth that I am way too hard on myself, that my adeptness in the world I find myself traversing is real. But the price of getting to be myself was and is high, and I wonder if paying it will ever not be a punishing burden on my life.
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