“So are you alright with that, then?”
I looked around the room and it seemed like no-one else was alright with what the instructor had asked, either. I thought perhaps it was because I was a newbie that I wasn’t getting it, but everyone in the class also looked deflated, exhausted and entirely not alright with that, then.
There’s a reason Zumba is at the end of the dictionary. It’s because most normal people would churn through all of life’s experiences before having to get to it.
In my 20s, I was a reasonably proficient belly dancer, so the middle-eastern, the bollywood (hell yes) and the hip hop moves I was OK with, but there’s a simple fact about having had two children.
Shit doesn’t move like it used to.
I should have realised this when I went rollerskating last year, for the first time in like, forever. I didn’t exactly fall over on my arse and embarrass myself in front of the children, but graceful I was not. The changes in your centre of gravity mess with your brain. Denial kicks in. Most of the Zumba routines were centred around Latin salsa moves and at first I yelled HELL YES into my tiny mind. I was a BELLY DANCER how different could salsa be?
Well, my friends, let me tell you—hot I was not. Not by a long shot. OK, who the let Dr. Seuss in?
I struggled with the routines (and they were fast) because I just couldn’t get my legs to go over to that place whilst my arms went over in that other place, like, over there. Where? Yeah, over there. It was an awesome cardio workout but a demoralising one. And of course, I had to plonk myself in the very front of the class. I mean, come on. Who does that?
I’m unlikely to go to Zumba again anytime soon. I’ll stick with Boxing (where I can punch the sh*t out of stuff) and Body Pump (where I can lift weights to music and pretend to be a Ukrainian bodybuilder) thanks very much.
On the upside, I sure as hell deserved that fancy mother’s day chocolate calling my name.
Have you ever done Zumba? Tell me I’m not the only one in a world of psychological pain. Please.