My Zumba Days Were Numbered

Zumba_logo_1_highDo you Zumba?

I tried to last night in the privacy of my own home and today I’m sore all over.

Apparently my version of Zumba causes pain and havoc instead of weight loss and health benefits.

Yvonne was working late and I was looking for a variation from the boring treadmill I’ve been trying to visit daily and there it was. In a bright reddish-purple box with DVDs to select, I chose the one called Rush, an express workout of sorts.

Into the player it went and into focus mode went I.

I was transported to a dance studio,  with pretty people who move in unison to the rhythm of the Latin beats coming from the speakers.  In my living room, I was about to become Swayze, Travolta and every aspiring celebrity dancer from Dancing With The Stars.  I was ready. Tan-ta-ran-tan-ran-tan-tan, tan-ta-ran-tan-tan…

And although my brain had quite the convincing conversation with my body, they did not seem to see eye to eye because my movements lacked the grace of gazelles and resembled more the frenetic movements of someone being attacked by bees.

The guy and girl on the screen went left and I went right. They jumped, gyrated and boogied while I hopped, stumbled and stepped on my own feet. At one point the only thing that kept me from hitting the ground was our Christmas tree.  It was an experiment in holy terror where it was either Santa-looking-me or the tree – suffice it to say I found my balance because the tree would certainly have lost.

I was sweating the bullets of two automatic weapons and surely I knew I was burning more calories than usual.  Just when I thought I was about to die, I checked the time on the DVD and seven minutes had elapsed.  There was no way I would make it to the end of the routine. 

Spanish chick #2 on the screen started dancing to some Manbo-Merengue-Samba combination move and I could literally see stars in front of my eyes as my breaths became  gasps for the little air that was entering my lungs and my invitation to the land of fainting was becoming more clear (as my arms swayed from side to side,  as my waist made a figure eight while I was holding my abs and squatting to the beat of the drums).

I checked the time again and eleven minutes had elapsed.  Surely death was near but I endured. In the back I kept hearing the words ‘Bandolero Lover’ as my knees tried to touch my chin.

Maybe I wasn’t Travolta or Swayze, but surely I was DeneyTerrio from the old Dance Fever show.  I had finally found my groove and while I still looked like the poor man who was being attacked by bees, my body had finally accepted that Zumba is not the dance, but the state of mind.

And in that moment, I and the dance were one.  I was a Zumba master and I would finish the routine. 

Two minutes later when I tripped into the armchair in the living room and stubbed my toe with the ottoman, I decided that while I was one with the dance, maybe Juan was not.

I vowed that tomorrow I would try Pilates.

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