All Zumba Classes are not Created Equal

*WARNING* incredibly boring blogpost ahead, consider yourselves warned!

 So, I've been pretty proud of myself for heading to the local Y every Sunday morning for the past six weeks or so for a most excellent Zumba class. Doing the same thing over and over again at the gym gets really old, really fast, so I decided recently to mix things up a bit, taking yoga, Zumba, and a brutal weight-lifting class. I've always considered myself a fairly decent dancer (oh, hell...who am I kidding, *I* think I ROCK!), and I took ballet as a child and ballroom dancing classes as a teenager.

C., our Sunday morning instructor, is always cheerful and full of energy, and her class is always packed. I believe we've had up to 30 participants, which makes for a very crowded room. It's a fantastic over-all workout and I feel I'm getting my money's worth. So far I've stuck to the back of the class, but I think I've got most of the routines down well enough now that I could move up a row or so this coming Sunday.

Yesterday I was idly perusing the class schedule at the Y, and lo and behold: A Friday morning Zumba class! Perfect, I thought. I always drag my feet going to the gym, but if I know a class is scheduled, I make more of an effort to get my butt in gear.

Dear God, I should have known better.

My first clue should have been the relatively small size of the class, only ten or so people. My second clue should have been the lack of, well, people of a certain age, shall we say. Third would be that three of the participants were male. Further indications of the hell to come would have been obvious to a toddler, such as the minuscule, artfully torn, midriff-bearing, brightly colored, "ZUMBA"-emblazoned outfits most of the others were wearing. Not to mention the tanned, toned,
pumped, and buff bodies encased by said outfits. Did I mention the six-packs on display? No, I'm not talking about beer, more's the pity!

Speaking of pity... pity me, dear Readers!

The instructor, H., was friendly and up-beat, and she started the class at a high intensity. Then she turned it up to ELEVEN. I tried my best to keep up, and focused on the footwork, mostly eschewing the hands/arms.

You know, I've always thought that I could swing my hips and shake my ass with the best of them, but I was WRONG WRONG WRONG. I never knew that Zumba required twerking skills! (Look it up, Folks. My children enlightened me. *shudder*)

I was panting and sweating buckets within minutes, keeping my gaze glued to the instructors feet and her gyrating ass, totally acceptable behavior in Zumba class, I might add.

Every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of a doughy, whiter-than-white, stiff and totally awkward middle-aged chick in the mirror, then I'd realize: Oh, yeah. That's me. Fuck.

But you know what? Even though I wanted to quit half-way through, I stuck it out to the end, mentally composing this blogpost as a coping mechanism, to distance myself from the torture. I also eventually realized that several of the folks who were madly gyrating along with H. were actually Zumba instructors themselves, which made me feel a bit better about my lack of coordination and grace. Not to mention my lack of booty-shaking skillz.

And you know something else? I'll be back there next Friday at 9:00. I can't possibly get any worse, so that means I can only get better!

GO, ME!