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By Kristine Hayes

I’m into body shaming.

Self-body shaming, that is. 

I’ve always disliked the way my body looks.

50 plus years of gravity have taken their toll on certain regions of my body. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your head. 

I know I can’t.  

I purposely avoid trying on clothes in department stores so I don’t have to go into dressing rooms with their carnival funhouse mirrors. 

The mirrors that make your head look too small and the rest of you look too big. 

And too saggy. 

Because gravity always wins. 

I admire women who are proud of their bodies, regardless of their size and shape. 

Women who can forgo baggy sweatpants and sweatshirts in lieu of more flattering clothing. 

Or no clothing at all. 

Take my co-worker. 

She doesn’t hesitate to show off her body. 

In ways I can’t even imagine. 

Although I don’t have to imagine anymore. 

Because I saw it. 

Her body. 

On TV. 

A dance group she performs with was making an appearance on the local news and I happened to tune in. 

I admit I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. 

After all, the only dance experience I have was acquired during middle school. 

I have no idea why square dancing was part of the sixth grade curriculum. 

I didn’t learn much about dancing but I did learn about anxiety. 

Reputations, after all, are made in middle school. 

One faux pas in sixth grade means being saddled with an unfortunate nickname until high school graduation. 

Nobody wants to be known as “Debbie does the Do Si Do” for seven years.   

Sixth grade square dancing was pretty much what you’d imagine. 

It resembled social distancing more than it did dancing.

Because in the ‘70s we were dealing with a pandemic. 

The cootie pandemic. 

We had to maintain a safe distance from our square dance partner. 

The length of the school gymnasium seemed adequate. 

Girls didn’t want to hold boys’ hands.

And boys had a different agenda altogether.

Apparently “twirl your partner ‘round and ‘round” was boy-speak for “yank your partner off their feet and toss them to the ground."

But I digress. 

I guess I expected to turn on the TV and see my co-worker dressed in a multi-layered floral skirt and western-style button-up blouse.  

Instead, I got an eyeful. 

An eyeful of Brazilian Samba dancers. 

An eyeful of my co-worker. 

Wearing a few feathers. And high heels. 

And not much else.

She was wearing less clothing in public than I wear during an intimate encounter with my husband. 

A few carefully placed sequins were the only things between her and a major wardrobe malfunction.

You say, “Samba."

I say, “Twerking."

In the first few seconds of watching the performance, I understood why Brazil is home to both Samba dancing and intimate waxing. 

It’s worth noting that my co-worker has two children. That she birthed. 

And yet she had no sign of stretch marks. 

Or even a hint of sagging.   

And believe me. Watching her on a 77-inch, 4K, ultra-high definition plasma screen, I would have seen it. 

Apparently, Samba dancers are immune to the effects of gravity. 

I realized I was blushing as I stood mesmerized in front of the screen. 

This was real-life Dirty Dancing.

Possibly even dirtier than Dirty Dancing. 

Maybe reputations are made as adults. 

If so, I know the nickname I’d give my co-worker. 

Sally, the sizzling hot Samba Mama.

— Kristine Hayes

Kristine Hayes recently retired from her job and moved to Arizona. She and her husband own four dogs that they train in scent work, which is just a polite way of saying their dogs sniff inappropriate things all day long.