Yesterday I trekked to the gym for an Abs class and got my times
wrong (typical). Instead of slyly creeping back
out of the gym in disdain because I obviously can’t tell time, I decided to give
the Zumba class the good ole’ college try.
I saw obscenely overweight people walk into the class and thought to
myself if these folks can do 60 minutes of cardio I can surely do a better job
at burning the mountains of caloric intake from the previous day. And so, I pulled up my big girl panties and
wore my bravest smile into the class.
Holy shiz balls.
Who knew Zumba was the equivalent to monkeys on crack
shaking every single piece of their existence for 60 minutes straight inside a
rave? Had I actually taken the
time to research what Zumba classes were like I might not have ever made a
complete mockery of myself. I should
have put myself right in the middle of a Brazilian Carnivale with a massive
headpiece, a thong and something to shake my tail feather with and been more
comfortable pretending I knew how to samba my way through a crowd. Instead I busted into class with the grossest
of tank tops, a sports bra that should have been retired about 50 washes ago
and legs I should have more carefully shaved earlier that day.
There was more bootie shaking, twisting, more jiggling and
shimmying than one could ever imagine. I’m pretty sure my intestines were unraveled
and wrapped back up into my core 6 times over.
Organs that were once in their proper places now reside in new
compartments of my inner body. I shook
so much at one point an eyeball popped and I stopped mid-shake just to dust it off and heave it back into the open cavity on my forehead moments before the next bootylicious choreographed move. I’m quite sure I jumped out of bed this morning
only to step on my right kidney because it now resides in the bottom of my
foot. By the time the class was
complete, my ass was numb from all the shaking, my knees were as wobbly as a
drunken sailor on the prowl, and I was standing in a pool of my own sweat
trying so subtly not to spew all over myself.
I’m slow to pick up on dance moves. My brain functions in exactly two
compartments: one for the feet and one for the arms. Little do they ever connect and work together
on one circuit board. The top half of my
body is completely retarded and unrelated to the bottom half of my body. In college I perfected the late night dance
floor moves downing Zimas (with Jolly Ranchers for extra flavor punch) and
vodka tonics allowing all my appendages to move fluidly in choreographed
harmony. Not so much at 35 and stone
cold sober (under horrid florescent light that shows off every single cottage cheese dimple).
The jiggling and shaking.
Oh MY GAWD. The shaking required
in Zumba is like watching me go into horrific bouts of epileptic rages without end
in sight. And I can’t figure out of if
the shaking is an appropriate amount of giggly or if the extra tonnage I carry
on my ass shakes extra hard?
Pretty sure I’ll never be asked out by one of the gents in
my class. Mainly because who wants to
date a monkey-like girl who moves like she’s experiencing convulsions and/or
for the fact that the gents in there happen to, well, like other gents.
I took today off from any physical exertion with the
exception of the Weight Watchers chocolate bar I furiously stuffed into my
mouth. Damn, I deserved that chocolate
wonderness. My body is recovering from the head-pounding, neck breaking,
shock-like after effects of last night’s whiplash episode commonly referred to
as Zumba Class.
If you have two left feet, are rhythmically challenged and believe you have a chance in he** you could keep up in a Zumba Class, here's your PSA announcement. YOU CAN'T! You can thank me now. You're welcome.
Otherwise, have fun in there while the big boy next to you sweating like Richard Simmons in too-short shorts making total fun of you getting giggy with it.
