Hello, Readers. I hope you are having a very lovely day. I’ve been a bit lazy about the old blog, which is why my most recent post was an old poem I wrote a couple of years ago. You know, so that way I can post something but I don’t have to do any actual work on it. As I have mentioned recently, I have been very hard at work on my novel. I have been incredibly proud, because I have been writing regularly and actually getting significant amounts of work done. Then, a couple of days ago, I decided to take a break and read a book. It turned out to be an absolutely fabulous book, and this was disastrous. I went back to my own book, and let out a sigh of disappointment. It was nowhere near the same level of quality. I cried to my sister, who pointed out that it was the very first book I have ever written so it was perfectly understandable. I was still desolated. I have tried to not let this affect me and to continue to work on it. However, the past few nights as I was desultorily trying to type on my story, I found myself whispering the lyrics to Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” to my hands.
So last night, I decided it would be best to go to sleep early. In an effort to do something about our constant complaining that we’re too chubby, my sister and I decided to get a membership to our local community center so we could start working out this summer. We bought it last week and made plans to try out some of the different classes they offer to members. Today, on Monday, the schedule starts over, so we decided this week we would try some of the classes to see what we liked and would try and start doing regularly. I was going to break the cycle of writing late every night and then doing nothing during the day. I was going to EXERCISE!
For some reason, I was super excited about trying Zumba. I had heard from a million people how awesome Zumba was and how much they loved it and how they went every chance they got. Now, being pretty much a boss at Just Dance (1,2, and 3), I thought to myself, This is perfect! I’ll exercise while also showing off my sweet dances moves!
My sister was much more skeptical of it. Now, neither of us traditionally tend to be the best dancers ever, but I got some rhythm when I’m not busy feeling self-conscious in front of strangers and when Rachel commits to it, she commits to it all the way, and she’s got enthusiasm. She was not, however, enthusiastic about Zumba. But I, in my newly motivated pre-workout excitement, was convinced that it was going to be AMAZING.
So we roll up to the room it’s going to be in, and find a small group of women standing outside waiting for the previous class to finish up. As women often do when they find themselves in a group, Rae and I gave our fellow Zumba-ers a quick inspection to see what we would be trying to keep up with. My slight nervousness was assuaged when I saw a lady who was probably in her sixties. Of course, there were a few girls that were so skinny that I found myself grumpily wondering why they were there.
But whatever, I’m going to Zumba, and I’m too excited to care! I thought. Looking back, I really don’t understand where all this enthusiasm came from.
So we finally go in, and everyone seems like they know what they’re doing. Without instruction, they put their stuff up in little cubbies I hadn’t even noticed and then they go and get in lines on the floor, and I begin to get a little apprehensive. My sister and I slinked in at the very back, far away from the brutally clear mirrors at the front, and next to two old ladies who showed up after us.
It’s going to be fine, I reassured myself. You’re going to love it. Then the music came on.
It was fast-paced and hip-hoppy, and everyone else apparently knew the moves but us. I mean, there were some people who struggled or were watching the instructor closely, but I have a feeling we were the only ones there for the first time. There was one skinny girl in front of us who might have also been a first-timer, but she was athletic and seemed like she could keep up pretty well.
I’m athletic, I thought desperately (pretending that playing indoor soccer once a week makes you “athletic”). Maybe I look like her, just a little uncertain.
At the end of the first song, I turned to look at my sister and said, “We are never coming back here again.”
There was jumping. There were hand motions. Hips were gyrated.
I am not a hip-gyrater.
I could just feel the awkward radiating off myself while I was dancing. I was a step behind, I kept clapping at the wrong moment, and my hands did not seem to be under the control of my brain any longer. My hips were stiffer than Zac Efron’s hair in Hairspray.
To put it simply, things went downhill from there. Worst of all, there was some ridiculously fit girl in a peach tank top who DID NOT NEED TO BE THERE. She clearly was a Zumba expert, and was dancing at the very front of the room right next to the instructor. I feel like she probably dedicates at least six hours a day to Zumba. I am not even joking, she was so intense that I legitimately could not take my eyes off of her.
Why, Peach Tank Top Girl? Why do you come to basic Zumba and just embarrass the rest of us? GO HOME, PEACH TANK TOP GIRL.
Meanwhile, I’m dancing awkwardly at the back, only to realize that, big surprise, the people outside of the room (which is made of windows) can SEE ME. Out of the corner of my eye I see that some really cute guy is watching us as he holds a door outside for people walking in, and I simply dropped my head in shame. Suffice it to say, I was very ready for Zumba to be finally over.
The whole experience reminded me of the few times I have gone “clubbing.” There seems to be this strange, unspoken knowledge that everybody has about the appropriate ways to dance that I am not clued into it. People start doing things like “Jersey turnpiking” and “Wopping,” neither of which I have ever seen before.
And here I am, simply trying to uncomfortably dance with something other than just my hands for once.
Zumba felt just like me trying to dance in a club.
Except it was not dark.
And no one was drunk.
And everyone could actually see how badly I was doing.
In summary, I do not think I was made for Zumba, just as I was not made for clubbing. What I unfortunately did not notice in my haze of humiliation was that my sister was LOVING IT. She adored Zumba, she thought it was ridiculously fun, and she could not believe that I did not have as great a time as her. So as I lay on the couch writing this post, I am feeling very sorry for myself because she is probably going to bully me into going back to Zumba. Now I just keep wondering why I was ever excited about Zumba.
I should have just stuck to writing bad romances.