All Zumba'd out.

Somewhere during my upbringing, I was taught that hate is a very strong word. When it came to fish sticks, "I don't care for them" was a much more acceptable way to express my feelings about a meal that smelled like dirty ocean. 

I don't care for cardio. 

But I know it's necessary. For my health and all that. And as much as I pretend, I'm just not disciplined enough to hit the machines at the gym a few times a week. The elliptical is the least annoying and the only one I will even go close to. The stairmaster and the treadmill don't even make the cut. Vomit. Boring. Yoga always wins. Always.

So last week, I thought I'd try out Zumba. Due to my Latino connection from back in the day - semesters in Cuba and Mexico and my short obsession with Latino men - I was a bit of a salsa-a-holic in my early twenties. And from what I'd heard about Zumba, there was salsa music, bum shaking and fancy footwork. 

So, obviously I was going to be a complete pro at it. 

In case you aren't down with the latest old lady workout trends, Zumba is a dance-style aerobic workout. There is choreography and everything. The teacher dances and claps a lot and you try to follow. There's also lots of jumping. 

Only five ladies showed up to to class before the teacher took her place at the front of the room. It's worth nothing that the woman in front of me, all 5-foot nothing of her, was dressed in a unitard. You heard me. Like a wrestling outfit. But with pants. 

It wasn't long after the music started that the hysterical laughter began. Directed at myself, of course. 

For the next hour, I got to stare at my sweaty, uncoordinated self shimmy, shake and swirl. It really wasn't cute and I was very disappointed I didn't look nearly as cool as I thought trying to dance sexy-like. 

And I took a pole-dancing class you know. 

For one, my hips totally suck. There was no Dirty Dancing-style gyration. But there was robotic, pinballesque movements. So, that was a a bit of a 90-year-old-with-a-broken-hip moment. I also failed miserable at what I imagined was supposed to be the hip-hop portion of the dance. Sorry, Beyoncé. I've let you down. 


And I clearly didn't wear the right bra for all the jumping. That was a bit, um, painful. To say the least. 

Unitard, mentioned above, was a particular highlight of the evening. She couldn't stop smiling at herself in the mirror and danced her own special version of the Carlton dance. I had to admire her. That whole "dance like no one is watching" quote? I think it was written about her. 

There was also the WOO lady in the front row. 

The Zumba music, apparently, isn't your average Shakira or Carlos Vives tune. Oh no. There are special Zumba remixes. Take your average Shakira or your Carlos Vives and throw a lil "ZUMBAAAAAA" into the lyrics. Ta dah! Zumba music. 

And it was that lyric that brought out WOO lady's magic. I clapped when clapping was requiring, and I smiled like an idiot on a dance show when the teacher yelled at me to smile, but WOO lady was really givin'er. A couple of head shakes, then a "WOO! WOO! WOO!" The WOOs combined with the clapping was really something to see.

The class made me super sweaty and my abs and thighs were sore for days after. And I came home feeling relaxed after a jam-packed work day. So I guess I got something out of it. But unfortunately, I lost my delusions of grandeur. I have evidence that I am not, in fact, even close to a good dancer. And when a woman in a unitard totally shows you up, your ego takes a bit of a hit.

I might go back to dancing alone in my living room, where there is no mirror and I am still a salsa pro.