Gemotions

The aerobics class. That's what I’d started. Just a little jumping around to stay in shape. Then, *boom,* there was Mr. Finch, his comb-over slightly askew, glaring at me.

“The… the jumping!” he complained, his voice rising with each syllable. "It's rattling my teacups!" My carefully chosen workout gear, the music I’d curated for motivation, it all seemed ridiculous now.

I felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to flee. My hands trembled, my legs felt weak. The rhythmic beat of the music, once so invigorating, now throbbed like a condemnation. The apartment, my safe space, suddenly felt like a cage. I just stared at him, unable to form a coherent response.