Friday, September 23, 2011

death by zumba

The pulled pork dinner would be my only stab at domesticity while in California although I weakly suggested cooking a chicken or paring potatoes but Susan overrode me and I meekly backed down. Guess I'll gave to be a beach slug the rest of the week, oh drat.  But all that changed when Susan cheerily announced, "we're going to a zumba class and it starts at 8:30 in the morning!"  I don't like setting an alarm while on vacation or any time for that matter but I dutifully punched in the numbers on my cell and was hoping zumba was a cooking demonstration or some African musical adventure but that's where I was wrong, dreadfully wrong.

In the 1990's in Columbia Alberto Perez forgot the music tapes for the exercise class he was teaching so he took whatever tapes he had in his car, mostly Latin salsa and international musical genres such as Greek, Spanish and African, and zumba was born.  Won't be the first time an unorganized Hispanic man who can't multi-task has messed up my life but that would be another story.

Now I am in good shape for the age of me (I did not say I HAVE a good shape) and I frequently do two hours exercise daily and I don't mention that fact too often as I would appear the eccentric addict, but there it is.  I was eager to try my muscles in a new routine because cardiovascular workouts, although necessary, can get dreary quickly.

The instructor of the class was all of five feet tall and wearing lilac tights and a figure-hugging tank top. I speak the truth when not one inch of her body jiggled when she moved and this included her almost non-existent butt.  She immediately asks who is new to the class and I should have kept quiet because she kept dancing back to me throughout the session and in the throes of zumba agony I did not want personal attention from a pro.

Thirty minutes into the routine I am staggering, my quivering legs shuffling frantically from side to side.  I dare not look in the numerous mirrors, walls of mirrors surrounding me as I will either a) fall to the floor in fits of hysterical, whooping laughter and probably pee my pants or b) picking up my towel and water and immediately vacating the premises and one woman did.
But heavier, older Hispanic woman are still twirling and shaking like experienced belly dancers and they probably have been twitching those hips since childhood. I am nearing a point of no return, but I continue, shame is a great motivator.
We are finally released and I notice the half top of my tee shirt is soaked with sweat, God I hate that. Serves me right for being  a smug  bunny about all this.

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