You know I am often game for public humiliation. Not on purpose, but by misfortune and by my own instigation. My latest: Zumba class.
Yep. Get that visual. One of my best pals dared me to go to Zumba class. After weeks of inviting me, she resorted to calling me a chicken. Nun-uh. I was going to show her. It was 6:30pm. Class was about to start. I had just wolfed down two slices of greasy pizza and a handful of chicken wings ten minutes before I squeezed into an unflattering pair of yoga pants and headed to my first class. It was time to prove my athletic aptitude; to get my groove on. The Carpenter heckled as I walked out the door, “Go Zumba girl. Shake it.” Funny.
Zumba, for the uninitiated, is an intense aerobic dance class that is part fitness, part night club, and all fun. It is an hour of reminding you why, when you got on a dance floor in college, people moved out of your way: for their own safety. The music is loud, the moves are guaranteed to shake, rattle and roll everything you own, or in my case, everything that flops, flattens and falls.
I entered the large room, totally intimidated. Happily, I found a relaxed group of adults from the belly-button-showing phase to the layered yoga gear stage; everyone seemingly free of judgement. This was mutual humiliation and safety in numbers. Nobody was here to be a dance star. Could exercise really be fun? Best of all, the lights were low. Bless the creator of toggle light switches in bedrooms and fitness settings. I found a place at the back, where I could see the instructor and nobody would see me. I stood behind my pal, so I could cheat by watching her. The music started. I felt panic. I didn’t’ wear Depends. What if this was like that trampoline incident? Bounce, bounce, bounce, uh-oh. My pulse raced before I could get in sync with the moves. I had to laugh, at myself. I looked ridiculous. I didn’t care. No quitting.
Before I knew it I was shaking and jumping about, albeit with an eye around the room for a defibrillator machine (just in case). Zumba allowed me to indulge my love of multicultural dances, like meringue, salsa and Bollywood, ’cause really, dances like that don’t happen much at the hockey fundraisers or the Legion hall, do they? This was awesome.
My friend, the darer-maker, offered encouraging laughs of support watching my flailing movements. Thank goodness she missed the “booty in the air” move, where my decision to stay in the back of the room proved wise. Now that my booty is a duplex, with two apartments on my thighs, I was afraid I would hear that beep-beep noise of a truck backing up. I thought my humiliation was over until she turned to me and said, “For the next song, let out your inner Pussy Cat Doll, Kell.” She giggled.
My inner pussy cat is more like Garfield; lethargic, sarcastic and most likely to be couch-surfing. But I am no quitter. I wiggled my hips, shook what my momma gave me and quite possibly did irreparable damage to my back-bone slide, then cursed myself for not knowing how great my body was at the age of 25.
Try Zumba. Get your groove on. But first, stock up on Epsom salts. And don’t stand behind me, whatever you do.