But before these things start, I thought I would give Zumba (basically a workout dance class) a go since classes are free at my gym. So I went.
The first ten minutes, I was all like “Pssshhhh, this is easy!” The next five minutes, I was like, “Oh, here we go. This is good. And look at me moving in sync with everyone else!” The next 45 minutes? Torture. Torture to a catchy Latin beat.
Also, I was standing directly behind this rhythmless Frankenstein woman who had no concept of personal space. You see how people are arranged into neat lines? You know, to avoid hitting each other? YOU ARE NOT IN A LINE! And when you move like Marla Hooch, this is problematic. You know how in A League of Their Own there’s that scene where Marla can’t move her arms gracefully and kind of just juts them up and down? Yeah, I almost took a Marla arm to the face.
So as I’m sweating up a storm and panting like a rabid dog, I thought, “This is how I’m going to die. I’m going to fall on the floor of the aerobics room, wearing pants that make my butt and legs look awesome, but still give me muffin top.” (Side note: I think I might have perma- muffin top. Even without clothes, my body is still like, “Top of the muffin to you!” and I’m just…I mean, have I just worn too many pants and it “baked” permanently that way? Whatevs.) But I didn’t die, and that’s cool.
During my death rattles, I noticed that my right hip can move to the rhythm. It can feel the beat, if you will. You will now be known as “sexy hip,” right hip. You’re the one I want to take out dancing. Conversely, my left hip has no idea what’s going on. It might be deaf, or, at the very least, tone deaf. It just moves wildly with NO regard for beat and rhythm. You could at least TRY to be sexy, left hip. You’re the reason I can’t have nice things.
Anyway, there’s no point to this except to say that I’ll probably be going back tonight.