“I hate my arms,” I said, scowling at the floor-length mirror with them outstretched wide, looking more like a Boeing 777 than a delicate bird.

“Stop. Stop right there,” Vladimir told me. “Do you know what you just said?”

“Yes. I said I hate my arms.”

“See? That negative talk? We need to e-lim-i-nate that!”

Vladimir was a passionate guy. Within an hour of our private salsa dance lesson, that much was pretty clear. That, and the fact that some disparaging shit was spewing forth from my mouth about, well, everything. From my airplane arms to my awkward feet, I surprised myself about how much of a Negative Nancy I was.

I found myself in Vladimir’s dance studio on a sweaty summer afternoon because I felt a calling. Lately, I’ve wanted to shake things up (fresh September, unlike bloat-y January, is usually what I consider to be my new year) and, as someone who sits at a desk all day, I felt compelled to use my body more (in a PG-rated way).

Dancing has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I danced from the age of three to thirteen, and while I was in acting school, movement classes—everything from ballet to tai chi—were mandatory. I was never a Baryshnikov but I can do a mean booty-shake to Jodeci.

Salsa dancing intrigued me. I was curious about a dance that was named after one of my all-time favourite condiments. Maybe that’s why people who salsa always look like they’re having the best time ever. So when my friend, Olga, who’s been salsa dancing for years, suggested that I try it (while reminding me that it was a great way to meet men) I was sold.

I googled local salsa joints and came upon Vladimir’s studio, which looked like any other studio in an industrialized area from the outside. On the inside, however, it looked like A Night at the Roxbury. A huge bar lined the jungle green walls along with high top tables, leather couches and a DJ booth. Peanuts and almonds were strewn across the countertop along with empty booze bottles. The place felt like a real gas. Immediately, I imagined myself being scooped up Patrick Swayze-styles by a tall, dark stranger as Vladimir pumped perky salsa beats from the turntable. I thought, “I could get used to this!”

But then I saw my stupid long arms in the mirror.

“You hate your arms?” Vladimir repeated. “Why? They’re your arms. You can’t do anything about them.” I know he had a point. I know! But, yeah, I was being self-judge-y. I mean, isn’t that what mirrors usually reduce us to? Insecure asshole critics who know better, but don’t act like it?

“Look at your arms again and tell me that you like them.”

I looked at myself again and stared at my wide-ass wings, and said, “I…like…my arms.” Fuck, that was a lot harder to say than I thought it would be. I had no idea I had such serious issues with my arms! But, after I said it, I felt…good.

“I studied psychology,” Vladimir would later tell me. “As a dance instructor, I had to.”

Despite my arm breakthrough, as Vladimir further explained further about his dancing techniques (which had to do more about connecting with the music rather than choreography) I could feel myself tense up again. The idea of freestyling freaked me out. Sure, I’ve taken a bunch of improv classes and I’ve got a pretty quick wit, but I’m an instructions-first-kind-of-girl. I don’t usually go where the wind takes me unless there’s a GPS along for the ride. I live for the moment, but I’m also always two steps ahead. I future trip. A lot.

This didn’t bode too well when Vladimir asked me to move to the music at a certain rhythmic pace. Like I mentioned, I’m a decent club/kitchen/bedroom dancer, but when I was asked to move every two beats, I made Taylor Swift’s dancing look good.

“You look like you want to kill me!” Vladimir said, and, truthfully, I did. I felt awkward and uncomfortable and self-conscious. I just wanted to melt into the floorboards and never see Vladimir or his spandex crew neck again.

“What happened there?” He asked. I knew exactly what it was. When I’m starting something new, I always want to do it perfectly the first time. It’s a fucked up rationale, I know, but I have a severe case of Type-A syndrome. I’m working on it.

“I guess I listen to my brain first, and not my body,” I admitted.

“You guess?” He said. “How about you turn that into a statement? Because you know you know. Your brain knows, your body knows. You second-guess yourself a lot.”

Holy shit. Who the fuck was this Vladimir? I came in for a harmless salsa lesson, thinking I’d move my hips a little, and here was this guy looking into in the window of my soul and calling me out on my shit. Shakira was right: hips don’t lie.

“You’re right. I do,” I said. “I don’t trust myself enough.”

“But with dancing, you will,” Vladimir said. “You will learn to trust your rhythm and timing. No guessing, no apologies. Your dancing is a reflection of you, and once you learn that, you will dance for the rest of your life.”

At the end of the day, as much as Vladimir was giving Tony Robbins a run for his money, I couldn’t justify paying for what he was charging for his classes (basically Mirrorball Trophy rates). But I haven’t given up my search for the perfect salsa class for me. I still picture myself getting all Jennifer Grey on the dance floor.

In the meantime, I’m still dancing to my favourite Songza playlist: The Golden Age of Slow Jams, and learning to trust my own rhythm and timing because I do plan to dance for the rest of my life.