The First Time I . . . Tried Zumba

Zumba: Shatter your self-esteem while you salsa!

I am a fitness class enthusiast. I try to attend a class almost everyday. Kickboxing, strength training, cardio boot camp, booty camp, core classes, step, even pole dancing. I gladly try them all. You could ask me to go to a new cardio class consisting of lugging full buckets of water around a room with the last 20 minutes spent holding a squat, all in complete silence, and I'd probably say, "Sounds good. Buckets provided or do I bring my own?" And that's because I really like fitness classes.

I ASKED YOU A QUESTION: BUCKETS PROVIDED OR DO I BRING MY OWN?!?

That said, there's always been one (1) fitness class that I just couldn't bring myself to try. And that class was Zumba.



While I'd always very much enjoyed the voyeuristic thrill of watching people do Zumba, I had no interest in trying it myself. Even though everyone always looks like they're having a blast (Zumba's tagline is, in fact, "Ditch the workout, join the party!"), I just never woke up with the urge to tackle, as Zumba Canada puts it, "one exhilarating hour of caloric-burning, heart-racing, muscle-pumping, body-energizing, awe-inspiring movements" all while enjoying "Latin flavor and international zest." I want to wake up, do hardcore cardio until I think I'm going to puke, and then go to work and drink my coffee.

Sans Latin flavor.

Zumba instructors also usually wear extremely brightly colored pants, and for some reason, I don't like this.

So I was pretty comfortable with the fact that Zumba would never be a part of my life. Zumba would be like that weird branch of your family that you meet once at an awkward family reunion and never speak to again or that can of pumpkin pie filling that just sits in your cupboards for six years untouched. You know it's there, you'll probably never interact, and that's just fine.

And then one day EVERYTHING CHANGED. My fellow fitness class enthusiast and co-worker/dear friend Christina and I discovered in horror that our beloved morning cardio class had been replaced indefinitely by a Zumba class.



(thank you rocky6655 from Photobucket for making the gif I always hoped would exist)

Our dismay was real. This was quite possibly the worst news that I had ever heard, EVER. One of my first thoughts was, "Who would DO this to us?!" and I was completely serious while thinking that. Christina might have cried. I don't really know because I blacked out for a good five (5) minutes. When I came to, we had a long conversation discussing the pros and cons of us trying Zumba.

Pros: Not having to change our gym morning routine, perhaps rediscovering our sexuality through salsa music and the merengue
Cons: Brightly colored pants, Latin flavor and international zest at 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday mornings

In the end, we decided to suck it up and give Zumba a try.

But god dammit we were not going to wear the pants.

"Oh my gosh, weren't you guys nervous? Zumba involves so much muscle-pumping, heart-racing, Latin-inspired dancing!" you might ask.

No. Well, I mean, yes. Trying new things is always a little nerve-wracking. But Christina and I know our way around a dance floor. We often dance for many minutes at a time in our office. On my resume, I have "BORN TO DANCE!" as one of the fun tidbits in the "About Me" section. You know what? I'm just gonna say it —we're GOOD dancers. Whenever we dance, people will usually comment upon it.

Comments like:

"Oh wow."

"Well, that's not a very practical move."

"I'm confused about what it is you two do for a living."

"Where do you find such shiny pantyhose?"

"You go girls!" (Thanks, Christina's Mom!)

So no, it wasn't exactly the dancing part we were worried about. It was just that Zumba seemed so . . . intense. So extreme. So full of sassy strutting. So middle-aged homemaker wanting to find her inner sexy Latina goddess.

(photo source)

That's a lot to think about at 8:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning.

Christina and I spent the next week discussing how many shots we should take pre-Zumba class (ultimately deciding on 8 each with a water bottle chaser) and alternatively, both trying to think of elaborate excuses that would get us out of going to Zumba. When Tuesday morning came around, I texted Christina to tell her that no, I didn't care if she hadn't gone to the bathroom in six days, WE WERE GOING TO ZUMBA, BABY!

And off we went.

There were five of us in the class. Christina and I were the youngest of the bunch, with the eldest being a man who looked about 75. Every single participant looked tired. I looked downright haggard. Christina looked angry, but that may have been due to her alleged extreme constipation. It was plain to see that there was a serious lack of international zest going on in that fitness room. As the instructor, a young, toned, tanned, lithe Latina, looked out at our sluggish group, you could tell she knew she had her work cut out for her. Our class might be able to tackle a few awe-inspiring, heart-racing moves, but it wasn't going to come easy.

Our class was going to be a little less this:

And a little more this:

The class started with a simple step-touch, side to side. Easy breezy. Christina and I gave a knowing nod to each other. We got this.

Then the hips started. And then the arms, each rotating in a windmill-like pattern at different speeds. My brow began to furrow. Then the instructor did some kind of move that involved extending her arms in front, bending over, jiggling her butt at a rapid speed, all with flexed abs and a blasé, you ain't seen nothing yet smile. It was kind of nuts. It was something I imagine Beyoncé doing on a daily basis, even when she was pregnant. It was a move that right away I knew I would never master, not even if I practiced for eight hours each day and purchased brightly colored pants. Christina and I stopped in our tracks and just stared.

The time was 8:03 a.m. 

Things went quickly downhill from there. It seemed that my pre-teen years of mediocre tap dancing strangely did not translate to the Zumba floor. Each move would start out okay—a basic grapevine. A chasse. A mambo or two. Got it. Bring it on. But then we'd add some "Latin flair"—a hip bump. A shake of the rump. A sassy head nod. Whirling, fancy-free arms. My brain simply did not compute.

I felt like I had suddenly morphed into Gerry Fleck, Eugene Levy's character from Best in Show, forced to dance despite being born with two left feet.

"I can't dance, I can't dance; I was born with two left feet!"

Each song was a different Latin music genre and brought its own set of challenges/minor indignities. There was one song that seemed entirely devoted to jiggling our behinds/inner thighs as fast as we could while giving sassy shakes of our heads. I was, of course, positioned directly in front of the 75 year old man for the entire duration of this song. And it's not like I'm against butt jiggling—on the contrary! I encourage it! But I think it takes a special kind of person who is okay with shaking their butt on command at 8:00 a.m. Maybe I'm just not that type of person. This revelation surprised me.

Beyoncé is obviously that type of person.

But onwards we went! We Zumba'd our way through "Waka Waka." Through "Tempted to Touch." Through the salsa. The merengue. Christina and I massacred them all with our own special combination of club-foot grace and wooden-hip sass. I tried not to look at her because I knew once we started laughing, we wouldn't stop. It didn't seem to help.

But the thing with Zumba is that no matter how awkward you feel, eventually you start to relax a bit. The music is kinda fun. If I called things "saucy," I might use that to describe Zumba tunes. I found myself starting to think things like, "Hmm, maybe I could add a little hip pop here; yeah, that'd be nice," or "My rhythmic butt movements would sure look sweet in a pair of spandex fuchsia pants." I might have even complimented Christina once in a burst of confidence: "Work it, gurl!"

But there is always a price to pay for hubris. Each time a cocksure thought like that would pop into my head, I would promptly catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And each time, it was the worst feeling in the world.

Christina and I didn't look like this:

We didn't even look like this:

We looked, every time, almost exactly like this:

OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH US.

During the hour long class, I mastered the art of locking eyes with our sexy Zumba instructor at the most awkward of moments. Moments with my face twisted in an enchanting grimace, concentrating on my rumba. Mouthing obscenities. Shooting dirty looks to the 75 year old man who was Zumba-ing better than I was. Staring in horror at each new move demonstrated. For the first half of the class, she would offer me encouraging smiles and "You can do it!" pity thumbs-up. Eventually the smiles faded and the thumbs-up stopped. By the end, I felt we had reached a mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid direct eye contact.

Do I blame her? No. It was self-preservation. Would you actually want to encourage something that looked very similar to this?

No. Don't even pretend you would. You would not.

Our hour with Zumba was a very long hour. Entire work days have flown by faster. Battles have been fought and won in the span of our salsa song. And during that hour, it seemed like everyone in the gym decided it was the perfect day to pause by our class window to take a gander at us "dancing."

Everyone. 

Each time I looked out the window a new person was there. The gym manager, standing with a clipboard and nodding attentively. The cleaning lady, taking a break from her tasks. Potential gym-joiners taking a tour of the facilities and staring, mouths agape. Gym-goers I hadn't seen in months. I'm pretty sure an ex-boyfriend was there, delighting in the scene. And I'm even more certain that whenever I go for my next interview, the boss will remark, "Say, didn't I see you in a Zumba class three years ago? You were doing a body roll and crying, correct?" and I will be forced to remove "BORN TO DANCE!" from my resume.

 . . . On second thought, NO. Dancing is in my blood and they CANNOT TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

Shakira, Shakira.

Thirty hip bumps later, our hour mercifully came to an end. Christina and I jetted out of there, anxious to reach the solace of our usually non-butt jiggling office. It took awhile before we could discuss what had taken place in that room. We reassured each other, "Nah, you were really starting to get the hang of it by the 10th song," and "I really enjoyed your interpretation of the rumba." And then we just laughed and laughed.

My personal recommendations for improving Zumba? Remove the mirrors. All of them. Turn off the lights. Put black sheets over the windows so no one can see in and watch. Offer optional blindfolds for the participants. Change the class time to 3:00 a.m. to catch the post-bar crowd. I think I'd kill Zumba after prepping with a night of heavy drinking.

Q & A:

Was Zumba the workout for you? 

No. Not at all. Not even a little bit. No.

Do you hate Zumba?

Well . . . I might have hated it a little bit. But I don't want you to think I'm trashing Zumba. I know lots of people who LOVE it, have a blast doing it and are able to lose themselves completely in the music. And that's awesome. Whatever makes you want to workout is the right choice for you. And I will say that Christina and I laughed waaaay more at ourselves during our one hour class than in any other fitness class I can recall. So that is certainly something. Right?

Will we return? 

Probably not. Give me push-ups. Give me jumping jacks. Make me run, do agility drills, burpees, whatever. Just please don't make me salsa dance.

Do you still consider yourself a good, all-around dancer who can comfortably dance in all genres?

Yes.

Sassy and sexy readers, have YOU ever tried Zumba? What was the most awkward you've ever felt at the gym? Is there a certain physical activity that you refuse to try? Is salsa dancing in front of strangers your personal nightmare, or just mine?  Please share and don't forget to include pictures.