I have been to the YMCA twice in three days. So pack away your ridicule for another day, ladies and gentlemen. But make sure to write down your wittiest zingers, because I’m sure you’ll get a chance to use them eventually.
Two days ago I made it out to the Y and jogged out a couple of miles. (Additionally, who knew the Jonas Brothers were exactly my jogging pace? Before you get all up-in-arms over my music selection, they are only on my iPod as part of Bug’s playlist, which includes songs from The Lion King, the Imagination Movers, and All-Star Weekend.)
The treadmill is not my friend, particularly because the speed button kept sticking, especially when I wanted to slow it down. A ten-minute-mile is okay when I’m just starting out and optimistic, but when reality hits, I want to be able to drop that sucker down to an easy 4.0 quick-like. There are few things that make me panic like wanting (needing) to slow down on a moving conveyer belt and not having the ability to slow said whizzing belt, thus preparing for an epic face-plant in the middle of a crowded cardio room.
But it did have a high-tech digitized little man walking/jogging in correspondence to my pace while giving me updates on my caloric burn, distance, and other numbers that depressed the hell out of me, in addition to enjoying the virtual beach view he was hanging out on. Now if only he had been wheezing, too, then it would have been like real life!
Then this morning I actually showed up (on time!) to the Zumba class they were offering. There is nothing more intimidating than showing up to a roomful of women I’ve never met before who are already talking about the choreography (“The Booty Run is totally gonna kill me today!” and “Think she’ll start out with the Dynamite dance number?”). That is, until the Zumba instructors (all three of them) walk in with matching Zumba-brand-name outfits. What have I gotten myself into? If the room didn’t have mirrored walls, and I hadn’t already made eye contact with one of the instructors, and I honestly thought I could have gotten away with it, I totally would have snuck out.
Instead, I fumbled my way through four different numbers, tried to stay hidden behind one of the ladies up front so I didn’t have to watch my reflection fumble through four different numbers, and learned that yes, I really am that awkward.
A fitness class that incorporates salsa, hip-hop, and African conga dancing in one fell swoop should have been a mighty big red flag that at least a little rhythm and coordination would be necessary. Who am I kidding, any kind of fitness class that features synchronized movement requires more rhythm and coordination than I can boast, so I repeat…what was I thinking?
As it turns out, I had a lot of fun. Maybe because I spent the entire hour half a step behind everyone else and pretty much made up the difference by laughing at myself. (And I’m fairly convinced I was the source of the girl to my right’s intermittent chuckling, too.)
Or maybe because this particular Zumba class (matching tank tops and all) is like a happy little saucy family, shaking their groove thang in unison and welcoming any hack like me to join in.
Or maybe because after just one hour of dancing (An hour at da club! Just kidding, I won’t even go there.) I was exhausted and parts of my body were burning (in the good way, not in the medically suspicious way) and it’s been a long time since I actually enjoyed myself while punishing the pooch above my belt for existing in the first place.
So I’ll be there again next week, and I’m kind of excited. Maybe I’ll even practice my neck rolls and hip swings in the meantime. (Right. So not happening.)