While we are dedicated to trotting Beef around town twice a day, really the only time I work up a sweat is fanning smoke away from the detector in the kitchen (yesterday’s meals … 2 for 2!).
So, when a friend of mine became completely enamored with Zumba, the NEW LATIN FITNESS CRAZE, I decided to join her for last night’s session.
15 minutes before class: Zumba-going friend, who also happens to be very skilled at music and rhythms and very slender, calls.
“Are you still planning on coming?”
*I pause, playing all of the embarrassing scenarios that come from huffing through an hour of cardio after seven years of sloth*
10 minutes before class: Lots of awkward standing by me, who almost forgets to check the consent form. IT’S A SIGN.
5 minutes before class: Hmm … a variety of women have assembled. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
5 minutes into class: HOW DID THOSE SENIOR CITIZENS TURN INTO MERENGUE MACHINES???
15 minutes into class: Establish spontaneous personal ban on shimmying in public.
30 minutes into class: HALFWAY POINT. Hoodie is flung in the corner and am trying to keep up with the song that declares that I am sexy, and I know it.
45 minutes into class: Zumba veteran next to me whispers, “It’s almost over.”
60 minutes into class: Cool down exercised to “Don’t Stop Believin’.” As is the case after any type of physical activity, I think to myself, “this wasn’t so bad!”
Then I remember the “smack the pony” move, and reconsider.
Returning home: Loving husband, perched on the couch with a bag of Doritos, eyes his glistening wife and asks how her experience was.
“I have too many sticks up my ass for group fitness.”