I’m just going to say it. Last night I went to my car to get some stuff out and locked my keys inside. This is something I have a long history with. It’s happened so many times over the years it might as well be a hobby. I mean, I could have worse habits. Still, this one’s a serious bitch sometimes, especially since I’m currently in Denver, and my only spare key is–well–also inside the car. (I kept meaning to put it in my man bag.) Anyway, I know how to call a locksmith, but my main concern before I went to bed last night was spending money on such a careless mistake. Personally, I’d rather buy a new pair of shoes.

So before I fell asleep last night, I got on YouTube and learned a number of ways to break into a car–specifically–your own car. Y’all, it was a little disturbing to find out how easy it is to get into a vehicle. No shit, I watched an eight-year-old break into a sedan with a magnet. After the magnet was in place, he just rapped on the door a couple times with his knuckle–shave and a haircut–and the door popped right open. A prepubescent car thief–now that makes you feel good about the world. Anyway, I thought, If junior can do this, I’m willing to give it a shot. Anything to save seventy-five bucks.

Eventually, I feel asleep, and when I woke up this morning, I went to work.

Honestly, it’s a good thing I feel at home here at Maggie’s, since she was gone and the first thing I did was to walk around the house and the garage looking for a wedge (like a doorstop) to shimmy in the door to hold it open and a wire coat hanger. Well, I quickly found out that any successful job is really about the tools you use. I couldn’t find a very fat wedge, so I ended up using a pry bar, after I put some tape on the door frame to protect it. (I got that tip from the video.) The idea was to sneak the coat hanger in, snag the lock, and pull it back. Well, problem–the coat hanger was flimsy and wouldn’t cooperate.

I said a lot of cuss words.

For about an hour I kept running back inside the house and the garage, hoping to find a fatter wedge or some sort of iron rod with a hook on the end. No such luck. Finally, I prayed to MacGyver, and he suggested making the coat hanger sturdier by twisting another coat hanger around it. Y’all, that did the trick. After about an hour of frustration, I had the door open in two minutes. Thank you, Jesus (and MacGyver).

And then the car alarm started going off. (I didn’t even know I had one.)

Well, fuck.

So there I was sitting in the driver’s seat, sticking the recovered key in the ignition and pushing buttons like a redneck at a slot machine. Finally, the alarm stopped, but the car wouldn’t start. Well, thank god for good people because I called Johnny, the guy I bought the car from, and he told me to disconnect the battery to reset the electrical system. Even better, he stayed on the phone and walked me through the whole process–turn the key in the ignition, flip the headlights on, disconnect the battery, wait, do everything basically in reverse. And just like that, the alarm stopped and the car started.

I texted my sister about the whole thing, and she said, “Way to be thrifty.” When Maggie got back from running errands, she said something about Triple A. Then I realized I have roadside protection with my insurance, and they probably would have done the whole thing for free. Considering I put a few small scratches in the paint around the door, I started getting a case of the “should haves.” I should have called my insurance company. I should have been more careful. I should have kept the spare key in my murse. (A murse is a man purse, Mom.) Anyway, my sister said, “That’s just life. Set it free. Deep breaths.” Then, realizing that I’m a mile high in altitude, she added, “Oh wait. There’s no air.”

For the last hour I’ve been watching Maggie teach and dance with one of her longtime students, Frank. Frank is eighty-five, and so far I’ve seen him perform a samba line dance, a waltz routine, a cha-cha routine, and a rumba routine, all from memory. Both he and Maggie said, “We know how many birthdays we’ve had. But you don’t have to buy all that crap people tell you about getting old.”

Frank said several years ago Maggie noticed his feet weren’t syncopating. He said, “Yes they are.” Maggie said, “No they’re not. I’ve got mirrors all over this place, and I don’t see your feet moving right.” It turns out Frank had a disc in his neck pinching a nerve, so signals weren’t getting sent to his feet, and he ended up having surgery. Afterwards, there were weeks when Frank could only watch dancing, then he had to start all over. But now you’d never know it. Honestly, I wish I could put him on a greeting card–the man’s a walking inspiration.

As I consider it now, I think Maggie was my therapist before my therapist was my therapist. One minute we’re telling jokes or talking about cha-cha, and the next we’re discussing our insecurities and self-judgments. Maggie nailed me when she said, “It’s easy to feel inadequate, to think, I’d be okay if I knew more, looked different, or whatever. But we’re not inadequate.” Earlier Frank and Maggie did a foxtrot to “You’re Nobody Til Somebody Loves You,” and I almost cried because I remembered what a gift it is to have a friend and mentor like Maggie–someone who just lets you show up, gives you everything they have then gives you some more, and tells you to come back anytime. This relationship feels like two wire hangers bound together–sturdy–and it reminds me that I’m more than okay just the way I am–keys locked in the car, scratches in the paint, money in my wallet or not. All of that is just life, which rolls along sometimes in simple rhythm and sometimes in syncopation. No dance is without its mistakes and what we would term imperfections, but I’m starting to believe it’s simply about showing up and, most importantly, those we choose to dance with.