Foreplay: Most people I talk to are somehow surprised when I tell them about my complete and utter lack of bodily kinesthetic. I've had long time friends outright laugh at my moves against nature when attempting to teach me basic choreography -- the kind of laugh that makes a person double over, wheeze for precious air, and never let me live it down (I'm lookin' at you, Loverboy). I still confuse my left and right ("I write with my RIGHT hand, therefore I'm left with my LEFT hand." Clever mantra, I know.) My mother used to stick neon green Post-It notes to the corners of her glass dining table so I wouldn't run into them. I've choked on my own saliva more times in the last month than I care to announce.
Basically, I'm a total klutz. So I was pretty damn confounded to find myself shakin' what my momma gave me in an exercise class.
The Down and Dirty: I woke up early this morning with the purpose of working off the five triple chocolate chip cookies and two helpings of pasta from the night before (it's that kind of week, ok?). As I walked down to my neighborhood 24 Hour Fitness, I debated whether to endure my usual four mile treadmill run or indulge in some Murakami on the elliptical. But as I flashed my guest pass at the obscenely perky employee behind the desk, he asked if I was here for Zumba.
"Uh... who?"
Zumba was starting in ten minutes. It was the brand spankin' new fitness program they just implemented.
Zumba? That sounded like a martial arts type class like capoeira or tae bo. It was still unforgivably early enough for me to feel like indiscriminately kicking ass and taking names. Did I need any special gear for it? No. Did I need to have prior experience? No. Before I could ask if there was any risk of bodily injury he chirped, "Just have fun, girl!" And snapped his fingers not unlike a sassy Tim Gunn. I didn't need to be snapped at twice.
I was all pumped for some Xena warrior princess battle cries as I hi-ya and hadukened my way out of my grumpy morning haze. That is, until my eyes noticed a description of Zumba posted outside the room. It wasn't so much an ass-kicking session as it was an exercise class. And not just any exercise class, but Zumba... "a fusion of Latin and international music that creates a dynamic, exciting, and effective fitness system." They forgot to include the addendum "when you're not attacking yourself and others around you."
Remember when I mentioned that I still have difficulty distinguishing my left from my right? At one point, it was like a bad sitcom unfolding right before my horrified eyes. The rest of the class deftly spins to the right as per the instructor's lead, and me? I hurl my body towards the left and end up nose to sweaty nose with a flustered, plump blond.
This was after being blinded by the unnecessarily large disco ball (is there a correct size for a disco ball in a gym?) as the instructor ordered me to "pump [my] pelvis" while galloping in place. To say that I looked like a lame pony in heat would be an insult to equestrians. So not only was there a dance component to humiliate me, there were seizure-inducing strobe lights as well. It felt like the most embarrassing rave of my life.
The Afterglow: Zumba is a hardier cardio workout than I had chalked it to be. I suppose rapid pelvis-thrusting, maniac butt-popping, and relentlessly flailing your extremities works up quite a sweat. But my pounding heartbeat, red face, and quivering muscles can easily be attributed to the mortification that occurred every time I caught sight of my offbeat body thrashing in one of the class' mirrored walls.
BRB, chasing after my dignity.
The Down and Dirty: I woke up early this morning with the purpose of working off the five triple chocolate chip cookies and two helpings of pasta from the night before (it's that kind of week, ok?). As I walked down to my neighborhood 24 Hour Fitness, I debated whether to endure my usual four mile treadmill run or indulge in some Murakami on the elliptical. But as I flashed my guest pass at the obscenely perky employee behind the desk, he asked if I was here for Zumba.
"Uh... who?"
Zumba was starting in ten minutes. It was the brand spankin' new fitness program they just implemented.
Zumba? That sounded like a martial arts type class like capoeira or tae bo. It was still unforgivably early enough for me to feel like indiscriminately kicking ass and taking names. Did I need any special gear for it? No. Did I need to have prior experience? No. Before I could ask if there was any risk of bodily injury he chirped, "Just have fun, girl!" And snapped his fingers not unlike a sassy Tim Gunn. I didn't need to be snapped at twice.
I was all pumped for some Xena warrior princess battle cries as I hi-ya and hadukened my way out of my grumpy morning haze. That is, until my eyes noticed a description of Zumba posted outside the room. It wasn't so much an ass-kicking session as it was an exercise class. And not just any exercise class, but Zumba... "a fusion of Latin and international music that creates a dynamic, exciting, and effective fitness system." They forgot to include the addendum "when you're not attacking yourself and others around you."
Remember when I mentioned that I still have difficulty distinguishing my left from my right? At one point, it was like a bad sitcom unfolding right before my horrified eyes. The rest of the class deftly spins to the right as per the instructor's lead, and me? I hurl my body towards the left and end up nose to sweaty nose with a flustered, plump blond.
This was after being blinded by the unnecessarily large disco ball (is there a correct size for a disco ball in a gym?) as the instructor ordered me to "pump [my] pelvis" while galloping in place. To say that I looked like a lame pony in heat would be an insult to equestrians. So not only was there a dance component to humiliate me, there were seizure-inducing strobe lights as well. It felt like the most embarrassing rave of my life.
The Afterglow: Zumba is a hardier cardio workout than I had chalked it to be. I suppose rapid pelvis-thrusting, maniac butt-popping, and relentlessly flailing your extremities works up quite a sweat. But my pounding heartbeat, red face, and quivering muscles can easily be attributed to the mortification that occurred every time I caught sight of my offbeat body thrashing in one of the class' mirrored walls.
BRB, chasing after my dignity.
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