As she turned onto the street, a sharp pain shot through Bernadett’s upper arm. By the time she reached the entrance to the studio, it ached so badly she could barely lift it. Just like every Monday evening, when she had her dance class with this group.
She even had a name for the painful sensation: Monday pain.
The rest of the week, she felt fine. But this group drained her. Being around them sapped her energy. Her creativity, too.
At first, she had found the twelve-member group, composed of acquaintances, charming. She enjoyed the laid-back, informal atmosphere. They laughed a lot at their missteps, the moves that didn’t quite stick, and the uniquely learned figures. At first. Back then, it seemed amusing how some of the men would imitate mating gestures instead of hip circles during warm-ups.
After half a year, however, all this had become unbearably exhausting for the young instructor. After six months, her smile had morphed into a grimace. Every single member of the group resisted the rhythm. Presumably, they didn’t come for the love of learning or dancing. Instead, they seemed to treat the dance classes as a casual stress-reliever. Bernadett simply couldn’t understand why they didn’t go running in a park instead of torturing her.
For a while, she hoped they’d get bored and gradually drop out. But, for some reason, they insisted on showing up every Monday night, trampling on each other’s feet and laughing uproariously under the guise of learning Latin dances. It was as if they only needed Bernadett as some sort of clown who would occasionally toss in a fun step or figure to bounce around the room.
She didn’t understand. Not them, nor herself. At the same time, she had no idea how to end this. The thought of having them join any of her other groups terrified her even more. It was better to keep them together like this, let them have their wild moments. Occasionally, she tried to engage them with some simple yet impressive step combination, hoping they could actually work seriously. But these attempts always ended in failure.
One day, she woke up determined to put an end to this clown show; the next day, anxiety gripped her. They had all bought memberships, prepaying for the entire month. And Bernadett needed every penny. For now, she couldn’t afford to be selective. Unfortunately, not yet.
“Are you seriously stressing over this?” laughed one of her friends, who also taught dance, though to children.
“Of course! Every damn Monday is a total disaster for me,” Bernadett grumbled.
“Believe me, the problem doesn’t start here,” her friend reassured the discouraged instructor. “I’ll show you a few tricks to keep them engaged.”
“They’re not kids; I don’t think the same methods would work as they do with your little ones.”
“Just watch! I’ll take over one of your classes.”
Bernadett took a deep breath before stepping into the noisy studio. Her friend arranged the forty- to sixty-year-old group into a V formation.
“So, did you get it? One, two, three, jump, shout, clap! Got it?”
And, after seven months, the twelve joyful students jumped, shouted, and clapped together, flawlessly, and all at once.