la vida es asi

Zumba - one part aerobics, one part dancing with the stars, one part rosetta stone, and one part stripper shaking equals one sticky, sweaty, beet red mum. If you know me at all, you know that I am not actually physically fit. I run for clothing sales - not for sport. I conceded to go last night because, well, any excuse to get out of the house around bedtime is a great one and also because I really needed blog inspiration. Inspired I was. By the first note of the first Spanish dance party rave song, I was oozing inspiration (and some perspiration).

I quickly picked my place at the rear of the gym so I could sneak Zumba out the door if I needed. The instructor, an obvious "WOO!" girl, cranked her iPhone to stun and set off on a mission to kick my untoned bottom. She moved in a girating, brandish style that left me a few steps behind and left my behind a few steps further behind me. I have heard that one's keister can become estranged from the rest of one's body and assume it's own, totally separate entity and folks, tonight, the urban myth that I balked at as a naive teenager, morphed into my rural truth. My backside was finishing the macarena while my arms were swinging to the salsa. I make it a steadfast rule to avoid any and all activities that may inadvertently showcase my jiggly bits. How do the French dance? Those people might be more my speed.

Ten minutes into the hour, the garlic green beans that I inhaled on the way to the car reappeared in objection. I choked them back down (not as tasty on the second go) and shuffled my tree trunks around near the foul shot line. Surely, we must be nearing the cool-down song, right? Wrong. A solid 40 more minutes of grapevineing and crazy arms and lady cha-cha chicky bon-bon hadn't even broken a sweat. Heck, she was singing along with Ricky Martin. I tried to ignore my imaginary audience's snickers, but those guys are so loud I tell you! As I was commanding them to take an imaginary hike, I noticed that we had real life onlookers. Were those cameras? I shuddered at the thoughts racing through my sorta warped brain and skulked to the farthest corner of the room praying for a bolt of lightening to strike Newbegin Hall that would result in my certain death. (Headline: Local Mum Struck Down in Freak Electric Storm! Witnesses claim she was so painfully uncoordinated, that they began a ritual rain dance to end the misery. "We didn't know the dance would really work...", said one anonymous participant.)

Thankfully, the gathering spectators were not equipped with recording devices, but musical instruments instead. I contemplated offering to stick around and inspire them with the interpretive dance moves I had just learned, but thought they might be offended. Apparently, not everyone is as amused by me as I seem to be. I might save my new moves for a family wedding this weekend or perhaps join the Zumba girl at Bubba's Sulky Lounge later. It's 80's night.