Dance, Monkeys!

So my dear friend, Sarah Magilla, talked me into joining her for a Zumba class.  Neither of us had ever been before, and she found a place that offered a class free for first-timers.  I’ve been interested in joining a class or trying something different, to mix up my health regimen, which as of now consists of skipping second-desserts and occasionally walking on my work breaks, weather-permitting.  I wanted to join another friend’s softball team, but the moment they started sending information about twice a week practices, I knew we weren’t on the same page.  I can stomach a once a week commitment, but anything more gives me sweaty palms, or whatever that saying is that means it makes you nervous.*  So we went to Zumba.

Now, in my younger days, I danced.  I took jazz and ballet classes.  It was a great workout, and I think it made me a bit lighter on my toes.  I wasn’t half bad at dancing.  I’ve been entertaining the notion of returning to a class, to help get back in fighting form and to regain that “lightness”, which translates well into being limber for soccer.  Zumba is a fast-paced dance class.  While I was a little nervous, because my good friend KChang had an unfortunate stomach-to-bottom incident after her first crack at Zumba, overall I felt confident that I could handle it.

Since participating, I now can only assume that if God wanted me to dance, he’d have made me 50 pounds lighter and given my rhythm.  I realize that when I was younger I was able to fake it, because the instructors, God bless ‘em, counted everything out.  When you were in class, they walked through every single step in a routine and counted it out, usually counting up to four or eight.  Then it was repeated it until it was beaten in your skull and you could do the routine in your sleep.  At Zumba, they perhaps go over the steps once with you before the music starts, and then you just go go go, and try to keep up with the instructor if she adds more steps.  There is no counting.  I would try to follow along, but invariably I would misstep, twirl when I wasn’t supposed to, turn and be facing the wrong direction, or doing completely wrong hand motions.  I found that my body does not move like our instructor’s.  My limbs are not as loose, and they have a very slow reaction time.  When I tried to count it out in my head, it helped, but by the time I felt I sort of had the hang of it, the song was over.  And then we were on to the next song and a new routine.  In the end, I tried to mimic the instructor to the best of my ability, and surrendered to the ridiculousness of it all and persisted even when I was doing something completely different.  I endeavored to get a good workout, if nothing less.  I tried very hard not to trip.  And I laughed through a good third of the class. 

Honestly, I’m not sure who’s less graceful between Sarah Magilla and me.  She just may be my petite, in-shape rhythm twin.  This made the class far more enjoyable.  This whole experience was reminiscent of the times I’ve tried to mimic Turk from Scrubs or Morris Day and the Motherfuckin’ Times’ Jungle Love dance.  Many a time, I’ve jumped around in my apartment, with Mini-Bottom, Sweet B, or my old, awesome roommate, Mija, trying to nail the dance moves.  Each time, I’ve failed.  And each time, I’ve laughed hysterically with my girls. 

I may be out of shape, and I may have the grace of a drunken Tyrannosaurus Rex, but at least I am greatly amused by all of it.   

*I am such a good writer.  Honestly, I’m thinking I have Nobel-prize potential.