Dancing is hard

Today I spoke to that girl, Mariela. She was sitting there before the bolero class started. I said hello and asked her about the salsa class from the hour before; we both agreed it had been particularly grueling, with a somewhat complicated sequence the instructor explained too quickly. It all went fine, but I still didn't feel satisfied; I wanted to talk to her more but ran out of things to say. I also felt like the greeting was a bit awkward. Honestly, it was obvious I’m not used to "pursuing" someone. The goodbye felt a bit cold, too. I just wanted to hide. I took the class—everything was fine. Regarding the technical side, I finally nailed the move of the night, though I hardly danced with her. And there’s something else—even sillier. There’s this other girl, Nazareth. The instructor was explaining how classic bolero is usually danced closer together, in a position where heads touch just above the shoulders. He said that position was for when people knew each other well. She told me (paraphrasing), "Don't you even think about it," in a teasing tone. It was clearly a joke; I made a joke back about getting "called out" [publicly shamed]. I listened to her and didn't dance that close. But now I realize she was just playing around—kind of like Craig Ferguson’s style. I shouldn't have listened; I should have danced close. I see her often, anyway. But what a blunder. I managed to wake up early this morning. It was one of the best mornings I’ve had in a long time, and on top of that, I had a great Muay Thai session before dancing. But at night, I broke my streak of good days—right on the first day. After class, there was a dance event at a bar; it’s a Monday, but tomorrow is September 15th—a public holiday. Honestly, I felt stressed—almost angry. I just started the car and didn't go home or to the bar. I just drove with the music blasting—LANDMVRKS. I felt angry, but I didn't know at what. Sometimes it just happens. I did take the time to really think about it. I wondered who or what I was angry at. I came to the conclusion that I was angry at myself. Blaming the professor or "them" didn't make sense. Literally, I was the only one left. After thinking about it for a while... I’ve always hated myself for being weak. I’m not sure exactly what I mean by that, but I know it’s very easy to make me feel small. I wouldn't say I hate my life. Most people would like it. A stable, well-paid job, an engineering degree; I put in the work at the gym and now I’m learning to fight (I read or heard somewhere online that martial arts attract a lot of social outcasts)—it’s not bad. But deep down, my cowardice shows in the simplest things. Everything else is just a front, it seems. I wouldn't say I have close friends. Just people I know. But this is where I’m at right now. I cried a little in the car, parked outside, once I finally got to my apartment. I don't feel angry anymore—at least not physically. My body doesn't feel like it's burning up inside anymore. This is my current state. I wish I didn't need so much drama to keep a personal journal.