The room was full of kindred spirits. Females of every shape and size—sisters and mothers, wives and daughters, alumni of childbirth, victims of Spandex, all united in a race against time.
The clock is quickly ticking down to summer, when winter camouflage—like those one-size-too-large sweatsuits and tolerant turtlenecks—gives way to shorts and spaghetti straps. Ready or not, Lycra, here we come.
Assessing one’s body after another cozy hibernation in fuzzy flannel PJs is scary stuff. When I finally peeked into a full-length mirror, the Pillsbury Doughboy’s missing sister was staring back at me.
My neighbor tells me that Zumba is the quickest route to a new and improved summer body. Apparently, fat is forced to flee when you gyrate to thumping bass rhythms and lyrics that never occurred to The Beatles.
Let’s see. I like music. I like to dance. I need exercise. Why not?
My first class was clogged with fellow newbies, so floor space was at a premium. Zumba-phytes need a lot of it. We’re a little unclear on that right/left thing. The idea is to keep moving without injuring anyone, but it would be easier if we had back-up cameras and turn signals glued to our butts.
Patty, our vivacious, superhuman instructor, began shouting directions to the thundering herd, barely audible above the pulsing Latin beat:
Boom da la ka boom. “Get those hips rolling. To the left!”
Boom da la ka boom. “Shoulders back, heads up! Twist those torsos!”
Boom da la ka boom. “To the right! Now back! Let’s go, girls!”
For the first few seconds, I could discern my left from my right. But that was before the turning started. My body has strict limits on how many extremities will cooperate at any given time. Currently, it’s two. That means that both feet might follow directions, or both arms could simultaneously flail to the rhythm. It could mean one leg and the opposite arm. No telling.
Patty can’t slow the pros down for the directionally challenged, so the Zumba-phytes were free to crash into one another like bumper cars. That’s how I met Sharon. She went left. I went right. We ended up on the floor.
We’re not the first Zumba victims. Something this popular with masses of middle-aged women is bound to benefit chiropractors and orthopedists. I found a whole list of respectable Zumba injuries affecting knees, ankles, shoulders and lower backs, which got me thinking Red Bull might want to sponsor us.
They already back cliff diving and motocross, where participants are only 97 percent likely to be killed or maimed. Clearly, they’re missing a golden opportunity with Zumba. Our NASCAR-style pileups would make great TV. And their logo would be dazzling on flannel PJs.
If Red Bull won’t bite, we could try that new orthopedic group where Sharon is undergoing treatment. They owe me.
Jan A. Igoe is a big believer in exercise, at least three months of the year. She envies dancers who pick up steps on the first try and appreciates everyone who uses turn signals. Write her here.