I like math and science and can do some basic computer programming. Like my dad. I am a willing and able slave to all things chocolate. So’s my dad. I also look a lot like his mother did when she was my age. For better or for worse, I am my father’s daughter.
I don’t expect my mother’s natural grace and dance abilities to somehow sneak their way into my genetic code. In fact, mounting evidence supports the contrary. So why did I choose a class at my local YMCA called “Dance Fusion” to be my introduction to physical exercise again?
Thankfully, our God is a merciful God, and I ended up missing the start of class thanks to a packed parking garage and an extra ten minutes spent circling in vain. So rather than being the late kid as well as the new kid in addition to the awkward kid, I decided to forego Dance Fusion today.
Instead, I ran (slash walked) a couple (ish) miles in fifteen minutes (each) on the treadmill. Eight hours later, my legs still feel like jelly. (Hey, it matches my stomach!) I had to keep reminding myself (as I stared at the timer wondering if the minutes on treadmills run slower than real time) that I would not be able to jog out three miles in under half an hour without breaking a sweat. Instead, I was drenched. And wheezing. And at one point, cross-eyed, because surely I had been running for longer than forty-three seconds! (The treadmill lies.)
So even though I didn’t pick up where I left off, fitness-wise (as if strapping on my sports bra made me Superman the same way glasses made him Clark Kent), I’d consider Day Two a (mild) success. I actually did something that involved sweat, rehydration, running shoes, and a decent ache (because I’m a weenie) in my (no-longer-atrophying) muscles.
But don’t think I’m writing Dance Fusion off with just a warning. I’m coming after you, Fusion of Salsa, Hip-Hop, and Bad Choices. And I will attack you with my pop-and-lock. Or the running man. Check and mate.
(*This post was originally titled “Groovers in the Hou-ow-ow-ow-ouse” because it seemed more appropriately descriptive of this post, and I have a longstanding history of taking artistic license with song lyrics. Groove, as it turns out, is not in my heart, as I have the funky chicken to show for it. However, it seems that my two sisters get uncomfortable when I reword such timeless lyrics, so I am deferring to the original Dee-Lite smash hit, as it was written.) (You had to clip my wings which you used to be the wind beneath.)
Meet the Buttrams 