Zumba Awkwardness

It should be stated that I am not a dancer. Even in the pictures above, those poses were forced. Which is why my dance career ended at age seven. I just don’t have the coordination or balance. My body rejects dance.

Don’t get me wrong. I imagine myself to be a fantastic dancer. Good enough for Broadway, because you know my singing voice is almost as good as my dancing. I imagine that I could keep up with those Glee kids or participate in a flash mob, like nobodies business. But this is all fantasy as I found out during ZUMBA!

In an effort to mix up my workout routine I decided to enroll in my local ZUMBA class. I’ve seen people do it, I’ve heard people talk about it, and dag-gon-it I wanted to get my groove on! What I quickly realized during my two classes is that there are six types of Zumbaers:

The Teacher:
These are the women that have obviously downed 2-3 cans of Red Bull before entering. They walk in with pure energy. They’re muscular…because you know that they spend all day at the gym and all night dropping it like it’s hot. They are the women with a bandana wrapped around their head like the karate kid. You’ve probably seen them at Whole Foods buying glucose free pretzels and organic fruit. They are also in there 40’s, making my 24 year old self feel completely inadequate.

The Grandma:
These are the women that are in their 60’s-70’s. They still rock out a sweatband, tights, and leg warmers. You know from the good old days of Jane Fonda. Goodness! I loved those videos. Reminder to self…check Amazon later. They have no moves, since they learned swing dancing and not Beyonce dancing.

The Mom:
These are the women I totally respect in that room. They are gonna shake what their mother gave them (the woman in the sweatband next to them) and not care who watches. They are going to pretend they know every J-Lo song and the lyrics to “Forget You.” They are going to shake that thang.

The Stripper:
This is the girl that will inevitably be in every class. There is always one. She comes half dressed, hair down, make-up fully done. She will brush her hand through her hair at least 12 times in the 60-minute class. She’ll pull a Reese Witherspoon “bend and snap.” She will go all dirty dancing on you when it’s time for free-style. These are moves that should stay in buildings with no windows and bad lighting.

The Semi-Expert:
These are the girls that have been to at least five classes. They can keep up. They’ve given up being perfect, but have skill. They are the ones that will one day teach the class. They are the ones that can move their hips and shimmy. They are who I aspire to become.

Me:
Then there is me. A mix between Phoebe Buffay running and a newborn giraffe. I can’t figure out the rhythm. My legs kick out from me like I’m a member of River Dance. My arms fly to the side like a bird set for flight. But I will not let this deter me! I will show up day after day and tell myself that I will be good enough to be pulled to the front of the room.

I mean. Who cares? It’s not like anyone is watching me. Who has time for that when you’re dancing? Oops. Wait. Me apparently. Now there’s a scary thought.