Two weeks ago, I skipped into my first Zumba class 30 minutes early. I had been looking forward to “joining the party” since I had signed up for it the week prior (ten years without a dance class is tortuous for a former dancer). I was so early, in fact, the teacher commented on my keenness. After that, I was determined to show her up.
You see, before taking a class, I was fairly certain Zumba was for housewives and old, out-of-shape biddies. Not true. When I started sweating so much I couldn’t see, I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes in. I then looked at the make-up plastered, heavy lady busting a move beside me. Her makeup looked untouched; she didn’t even have a slight glow to her. Something wasn’t right and I think it had to do with my ego and being disgustingly out of shape. I gave ‘er as hard as I would have mid- dance season back in high school. What I was not prepared for was doing this for an entire hour without a break.
I was exhausted, but I was convinced I was still blowing away my instructor and everyone else in the class because, I rocked. And I was a champion. I was the title of every Queen song ever written and performed on stage. And their back-up dancer was none other than: ME. Of course, I had an advantage because many of the steps came from the “Cha-Cha” and what I can only speculate as being the Mambo #5.
After my first class, I was hooked. If this makes me a Desperate Housewife, then so be it. There’s nothing like a good sweat and endorphins to enhance your mood. Even if you sweat so hard you’re instantly dehydrated and you hurt so much you develop a bad case of Restless Leg Syndrome and Insomnia. I plan on whooping and hollering once a week for the next 8 weeks and (fingers crossed) I will lose some misguided arrogance along the way.