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notion. Thankfully, I located both my shoes and iPod so I could run with both tunes and protected feet.
    I arrived at class just in the nick of time, tearing off my outerwear in the lobby until I was down to the required dress of pink tights and black leotard. After I slapped on my thigh-high leg warmers, I positioned myself along the barre with the others. An hour later, I was thoroughly limbered up and ready for the rest of my classes. The four hours of dance made for a long evening, but I didn’t mind. It was better than anything else I would have been doing any other night of the week.
    Hip hop ended after a wicked combination that our instructor had just learned in New York City was firmly drilled into our brains and bodies. I had the shakes from lack of food and was in dire need of replenishing fluids. If I’d wrung out the sweats I was wearing, I could have filled a Nalgene bottle.
    I changed quickly after class and put on my iPod before waving in the general direction of everyone as I walked out onto the street. I secured my messenger bag so that it wouldn’t bang around while I ran back home. My legs seemed especially tired that evening, so I started off walking, hoping that they would quickly be inspired to get with the game plan to run home.
    The trip through town could be a bit unnerving in the dark. Winding through the main streets of the city was safe, but I could freak myself out sometimes, ducking down alleys and roads that weren’t well traveled during the evening. There were always people out when I hit the bar district, but other than that, they were few and far between.
    I’d never actually walked home before, and after about ten minutes, I started to realize why. Running seemed to numb my awareness of certain things in a way that walking did not. I didn’t get as much time to focus on the upcoming dumpster and what could be lurking behind it, or what could be around the dimly-lit corner laying in wait. Even worse than the general anxiety I was giving myself was the very definitive feeling that someone was following me. I was picking up on something that was not especially warm and fuzzy, but whenever I turned to see if someone was there, I was alone. Very, very alone.
    And I slowly started to panic.
    My legs soon realized that running was in our collective best interest and off we went. As I began to run I hoped the malevolent energy around me would lessen but it didn’t. With my increasing panic came increasing speed. I hurdled over objects in the street and wove through parked cars like a heat-seeking missile aimed straight for the warmth of home. I didn’t look back anymore, knowing that whoever was throwing that energy my way would inconveniently not be seen. Common sense dictated that it would be best to take out my earphones, but the thought of hearing my pursuer disturbed me too much. Beyond that, I needed the adrenaline rush that Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of” was giving me, although the title wasn’t very reassuring.
    I was about two minutes from home when I neared Market Street. There would be people out for sure on a Saturday night, so I thought I’d be in the clear. I rounded the corner to see precious few walking the streets. It was an improvement, but not what I’d hoped for.
    As I neared home, I reached around to my bag in a desperate effort to find my keys, all the while chastising myself for not having them already in hand. Personal safety was never my strong suit and I was painfully aware of it at that moment. After two blocks of searching, I managed to pull my keys from the bag, only to immediately fumble them. They flew through the air in slow motion as I helplessly watched them crash to the pavement and skid underneath a parked car.
    “Shit!” I muttered angrily to myself.
    My timing couldn’t have been more off. At that particular moment the street was clear of any life that I could see. Still, I felt that negative energy there, nagging at me.