I did something that that scared me

and it was as bad as I thought it'd be.

I’m not one for setting new year’s resolutions. I don’t tend to do anything at the same time as anyone else to be honest, I feel a bit pressured, like I do when I’m expected to take part in ‘organised fun’.

This year has been a bit different. I wanted to start afresh and put some distance between where I am now in my life, and where I have been. Normally I head into January carrying on where I left off before Christmas, with maybe a vague idea about eating less chocolate and finding a hobby, but that’s about it. I usually achieve neither of these things because I remain head down with work, and because I like my work, I can’t think what else I’d rather do in my spare time. In fact, ‘spare time’ in itself has always felt like something other people have, my allocated hours have always been chock full.

Until now.

I didn’t realise how much of my time, energy and brain power had been taken up with running a full house until it was empty. It’s the part of empty nesting that we look forward to when we don’t have a moment to ourselves and just wish someone would empty the dishwasher, or make us dinner for a change, but we don’t think about how it will feel when there is no one to make dinner for.

The fact that so many parts of my life changed all at once last year has meant that for the first time ever I am starting January with no idea what to put in it. All the things I’ve not done because I didn’t have time are staring at me accusingly with their arms folded, because now I don’t have the excuse. I don’t have to rush anywhere, and I’ve realised that rushing was my default setting. Rush and stop. I don’t know how to travel at an average speed.

Everything feels weird right now, and I figured the only way to get over that feeling is to get used to it. So I have set myself the challenge of doing things that feel way out of my comfort zone, so that that the everyday things that feel weird will become my new baseline. Somewhere in my head this makes sense.

I have started Spanish lessons. We had our first one last week, three couples sitting in a local café with a jolly Spanish lady, who patiently explained how to pronounce our vowels, and told us that it’s not “No problemo!” it’s “Sin problema!” which will take some getting used to. We sat around a table and introduced ourselves, and learned how to introduce our spouses: “él es mi marido” means “he is my husband” but apparently he has to introduce me as his ‘woman’. Not sure how I feel about that.

The biggest takeaway of the lesson was that men are very confident in what they think they know, while I buffer like I’ve lost internet connection every time I’m asked to speak out loud in another language. I can’t remember my own name because of the sheer panic of how strange the new words sound coming out of my mouth. My way around it was to copy how she spoke like a little parrot, and try not to think about it too much. I was sweaty and relieved when it was all over.

Yesterday I started phase two of “Doing things that are so out of my comfort zone that my every day discomfort will feel normal”. I went to a dance class. It was actually a NIA class, which it says is a mixture of dance and martial arts moves. It’s technically a movement class, which I need because I spend most of my day sitting at a kitchen table tapping into a laptop. My ‘day job’ is writing, and there is not much movement in that, other than to the fridge and back, or occasionally unloading the washing machine.

I was late because I couldn’t find the studio, and hadn’t left enough time to factor in getting lost. I rushed in, dumped my bag and took a spot. For the next hour I flailed about, tripped over my feet, and went left when everyone else went right. I refused to look at myself in the mirror and focused on what the teacher was doing, staring at her dainty feet and graceful arms and tried to follow. The few times I caught sight of myself, I looked like a very serious, gallumping bird. Like a sweaty ostrich in Lycra. I was all elbows and bum. Craig Revel Horwood would have had a field day with me. I felt panic and embarrassment rise up a few times, and I considered pretending I needed the loo and never coming back.

But I stayed. I did what I’ve done many times before when I’ve found myself in uncomfortable or challenging situations. I pretended I was OK with it, until I was.

Years ago, when I first started hosting Loose Women, I was so scared and out of my depth I felt like I was drowning on live telly. So I forced myself to think: “What would someone who knew what they were doing do?” I pretended I was an anchor I admired, and behaved how I thought she’d behave, and it seemed to work. Eventually I didn’t have to pretend anymore, and I not only got used to it, but I enjoyed it and became very good at it.

In this dance class I pretended I was my husband Nick. Nick has the most cheerful, confident attitude of anyone I’ve ever known. I knew that he’d be having such a great time he wouldn’t care that he was going the wrong way, or was doing things back to front, he’d be grinning and cha-cha-cha-ing his way through the class and loving every second of it. And, it worked. By the time the class finished, I was still terrible but I didn’t care.

And that was the most liberating part of it. I’ve always wanted to do well at everything I do; in work it’s part of my DNA and has helped me persevere and learn and keep trying. But in my personal life, it’s meant I haven’t wanted to try anything that I knew I’d be rubbish at, because what was the point? I didn’t have the headspace to put hours in getting better at something that didn’t have a purpose, because surely it was a waste of time?

As I walked home, I chatted on the phone to my sister and told her what I’d just done. She laughed, because she knows my history when it comes to choreographed movement. I can’t go to an aerobics class for fear of knocking people down like skittles, as I did on one fateful evening at a gym in Surrey. I still get embarrassed thinking about that.

I don’t want to say that I will never be good at dancing, or speaking another language, because that’s not the best attitude to start the new year off with. But it’s the truth. I will become better at both if I keep practicing, and they will serve me in their own way. With one I can learn to communicate in the language of the country I’ve chosen to live in, which will mean a feeling of belonging and hopefully friendship.

With the other I will learn how to dance like no one is watching, and hopefully the only thing that gets bruised in the process is my ego.