My Zumba Debacle, Never Again

Exercise disaster

I have a love – hate relationship with my body, and currently it’s heavy on the hate. I’ve topped the scales at my highest weight ever and I am not happy about it. Part of it is due to medication changes, fucking pills, and the other part is due to my deep love of craft beer, crackers, and a refusal to cook. After living with the imprint of all my clothes for two months I figured I needed to do something before my entire wardrobe consisted of elastic and yoga pants. Fuck I even had to go buy a pair of pants for my anniversary dinner so that I could eat without the constraints of buttons. AND I BOUGHT THEM AT TALBOTS – where preppy older woman go to die.

Cue my current three days of workout in a row. Lookout, I’m on a roll (straight to the fridge)!

An intervention was necessary. My good friend Whitney just birthed her fourth child. She was the lady doing Tabata at 8 months pregnant. I don’t even know what the fuck Tabata is, and I have no intention of finding out. Whitney knows I need to lose weight, because I’m always bitching about it, so she invited me to join her at the gym.

Initially I thought she meant like we walk on the treadmills and chat, so I agreed. Then I learned I was doing a Zumba class. Me…in a zumba class. Yesterday I tripped in the doctor’s office on a string and wiped out in the waiting room. My arms and feet never move in unison, ever. If I had to think about breathing and walking at the same time I’d be dead. That’s my level of coordination. I constantly walk into walls, I am as white as they come when rhythm is involved. My husband calls me Elaine from Seinfeld when I dance, and my daughter takes great enjoyment in mocking my dance moves, and she’s right they are horrible.

This was going to be horrendous.

I arrived to class a little worried, the ladies were all older but clearly knew what they were doing. They set up their spots and got their weights, who knew weights were involved in Zumba? Whitney set up my spot in the back corner, good thinking. Not only did the spot ensure I would only take out the lady in front of me, to the side, and Whitney but most importantly it meant I couldn’t escape out the door that was located on the other side of the whole class.

The lady who was teaching the class was in long pants, I took this to mean we wouldn’t be working up a sweat, I was wrong. The tunes started and we did something called a vine, I don’t know about you but this shit does not remind me in anyway of an actual god damn vine. And seriously there was a restaurant near me called The Vine and it had the greatest hot cheese crab dip ever, this was not the vine I wanted. I tripped, I kicked my feet, and lets not even discuss my arms not moving in unison with my feet – ever. We did some sort of roll, punch, kick thing, then tap tap tap, turn arms in the air and mine waved like they just didn’t care.

After the third song our fearless leader turned to me and said, “just work on getting your feet right, don’t worry about your arms.” Point taken.

As sweat poured down my body and my calf muscles coiled like an angry snake ready to strike I realized watching myself in the mirror was not a good idea. Body parts shook, my ass was as big as the Titanic and it was headed on a collision course with the wall behind me on every turn, step, shake I did. When we were instructed to grab our weights I foolishly did. It took me three seconds to realize that wasn’t happening and tossed them back onto the floor with a resounding thump.

The woman next to me was shimmying and shaking like a scene out of Airplane, and she was laughing at me, fuck I was laughing at me. Every time Whitney turned her tiny self my way she laughed, and at one point told me “she was really enjoying” the spectacle. That’s what friends are for I suppose, to knock your ego down a few notches.

On one tap, tap, triple tap turn, shuffle, shit I actually tripped over my foot and fell into the wall. Thank god there was a ballet bar there to grab ahold of because this ship was going down. My eyes were glued to the clock, this is what 45 minutes of embarrassment feels like. I actually said I would have rather have gone to spin class, and lord knows I woulda fucking died in that class. When class finally ended, 48 minutes after it began, yes I was well aware of those extra three minutes I thanked the lord I had my elastic waist pants on, and left with sweat rolling down my back and my head held high.

Tomorrow we are walking, I think I can handle that, maybe.

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