I signed up for an adult dance class at my kids’ studio. A just-for-fun class.

In my head, it was going to be Dirty Dancing magic, that scene where everything just clicks, my hips suddenly know what they’re doing, and I look like a total smoke show.

Then my husband said, “Enjoy socializing with adults!”

That’s when it hit me:

I’d have to talk to people.

Not about diapers, chaos, coffee, or crumbs, but like, adult things.

I spent the entire week in a panic spiral, trying to remember how humans socialize. I even made mental flash cards:

• “Wow, the weather, am I right?”

• “Have you tried this new oat milk?”

• “What’s your favorite wine under $12?”

There was no way I was backing down. I’d already paid. So, I put on my big girl panties (the ones from Victoria’s Secret…8 for $28, a deal too good to pass up) and showed up.

The parking lot was suspiciously empty. The lobby was quiet.

“Surely, I’ve got the wrong day,” I thought. Maybe I missed a cancellation email. Maybe this was divine intervention.

Then out comes this peppy woman, the kind who clearly has dance moves instead of bones and rhythm coursing through her veins instead of blood.

“Right this way!” she chirps.

I follow her into a massive studio with a mirror that somehow highlights every flaw I’ve ever had, plus a few I didn’t know existed. I scan the room for other moms to commiserate with. No luck.

It’s just me.

Me. The mirror. And Peppy Dance Lady.

And the music? A song that made me want to rip my own ears off.

But here’s the thing. I didn’t run. I didn’t fake a phone call or slip out the back.

I watched the steps. I counted the counts. And since I’m a words girl, I swapped the 5-6-7-8 with the actual names of the moves:

“Drag the body, lift it up, throw it over, sashay, sashay…”

By the end of the hour, I wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. But it was done.

Me. The 40-year-old mom of ten, the lady that has birthed seven of those ten, dancing for the first time since high school to a soundtrack that felt like Ms. Rachel collided with 90s rap.

Watch out, world. There’s a new booty shaker in town.

And next week?

She gets jazz hands.