My daughter recently joined a gym, and so excited were they at the prospect of her patronage that they threw in a free month for me.
Anxious to make the most of it I decided to try all the classes. I quite fancy being one of those trim, slim MILF types. The way I see it, I just need to lose ten pounds and grow 4″.
It was all going quite well until I tried a Zumba class – I’ve been hearing lots about it and it’s obviously the latest thing. Well, holy crap on a cracker, it was the most humiliating experience of my life (okay, one of them, anyway). The instructor was up there with her hips waggling and everything else shaking in all the right directions and I realized right away that I might not be quite equipped for this. You see, my hips just don’t do that, and my limbs just flailed every which way in complete disregard of the clear messages I was sending.
There were only four other people in the room, and now I know why. Unfortunately that meant that there was nowhere to hide. I did stick it out, but it took a great deal of willpower not to scoop up my dignity while there were still traces left, and slink out.
The upshot is that now I have to take dancing lessons. I feel that my awkwardness and complete lack of rhythm might just be a metaphor for my life. Clearly, if I can learn to go with the flow and feel the music I will become a much more fulfilled, exciting person.
So, I’m registering for a hip hop class, although every rationale, sensible fibre of my being is shouting “NO, start with something like line dancing!”. Well, it should make for good entertainment, if nothing else.