As you probably gathered, I went to Zumba, and it was hilarious. You may be asking yourself, “Why, Liz? How could such a popular fad that involves bettering yourself to Latin music be funny?” I shall indulge you.
Not long ago, my parents, being concerned for my “well-being,” decided that we would all purchase memberships to the local YMCA. It was very parentish and annoying of them. They demanded that I begin going to the gym and attending exercise classes. Considering that I haven’t been to the gym in six months (two years), this came as somewhat of a jolt. Since, however, I am currently without a real job and am being fully supported by my parents (don’t you dare judge me- you will be zapped with bad-economy-layoff-karma despite what Obama says), I had little choice but to comply. As they said in that one Star Trek movie, resistance was futile.
So last night, after deciding I was looking a wee bit pudgy, I decided to wake up at the crack of dawn (7:30) and drag myself to the Y. My alarm sounded off like bells tolling for the gallows. So I pressed the snooze button.
Five minutes later I fell out of bed (I feel that is the most effective way to get up in these sticky situations. Not only are you fully awake from the impact with the floor, but you also stay awake due to the bruise on your hipbone). I scooted over to the Y and asked where I could find Zumba, that chic aerobic craze.
Apparently, at the Y Zumba is only chic if you are pushing 85 and have managed to avoid a walker. Don’t get me wrong; there were a few people there who knew how to use the interweb, but I was the youngest by at least a decade.
While I was observing my surroundings and beginning to feel the rush of excitement I get before an extraordinarily awkward situation, a sassy Spanish woman danced through the door, screamed “Arrrrrriba!” and turned a boom box up. She was rhythmic, she was coordinated, and I’m pretty sure she was laughing her ass off at me. I am somewhat gangly and awkward and tend to move like a New York pigeon with vertigo.
I danced (and by danced I mean fell over myself) for an hour straight. The only reprieve I had was when the Cupid Shuffle came on. I showed all those grannies what was up.
But despite my embarrassing dancing, which was enhanced due to my age, I cha-cha’d and “took it to Memphis” like a pro. A pro undergoing rehabilitation for a life-threatening injury, but a pro nonetheless.
To my surprise, I actually worked up a fairly good sweat during my Zumba experience. This may have been due to my uncontrollable laughter, or it may have been my swingin’ moves. We shall never know. All that matters is that my parents cannot sass me about working out until next week.