I want you to imagine you are on a boat and that you are fishing. You feel a tug on the line and reel in a feisty little fish. Pulling the line out of the water, you place the fish in your boat. It flops about manically, tail flailing, head thrashing. Every so often it stops and you wonder, Is it dead? No, it’s not dead. It suddenly comes back to life with vigorous animation, leaping into the air and crashing down clumsily against the bottom of your boat. This scene repeats itself for a little while until, with neither energy nor dignity remaining, the fish throws in the towel.
If you were able to imagine that fish, then you are able to imagine me in Zumba class.
Flopping and flailing are really only the tip of the iceberg here. During last night’s class, I managed to:
- Trip over my own feet (Twice)
- Knock into my neighbors (Too many times to count)
- Make the instructor laugh (It should be noted that the instructor just returned from laser eye surgery and could barely see. And yet…)
I was all excited when I first started Zumba and noticed that the audience was equal parts sexagenarians and lithe twenty-somethings. Well, I must have been attending the matinee show. Turns out, when you go to the Monday post-work class, it’s ALL lithe twenty-somethings. Each one decked out in Lululemon from head to toe, hair tied neatly into a cute ponytail. Some even had makeup on. (Which, if you ask me, is really just asking for a giant acne eruption. But, I digress.) And, are you ready for it? They could all shimmy! Every last one. How a person is able to wiggle the top half whilst keeping the bottom half still is a talent utterly lost on me. (See illusion to fish above.)
But, if you think my complete lack of coordination or my scarcity of skill will stop me from dancing, think again. Thanks to my dearth of dignity (isn’t alliteration fun?), I plan to flop and flail in Zumba at least twice a week.
My Lululemon pants are in the mail, so watch out.