Zumba-ing.
When a friend asks me to Zumba, my answer is always yes.
This has only happened once in my life so far, but nevertheless, all Zumba invites ought to be responded to with an exuberant and grateful “hell yeah.”
Why?
Because it’s best to welcome your quota of humbling moments with open arms and whenever you can, be in control of the time and place and scenario in which the occur. Trying to exercise-dance in a mirror to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” is a prime opportunity to get some humiliation out of the way until the next due time.
It was winter. One of my oldest friends was in town from out-of-state university and was accompanying her mom to her Zumba class. They asked if I wanted to join, and when I found out that their neighbors would also be tagging along, I was grateful for some potential “wow, can you not even believe we’re doing this, either?” camaraderie.
Carpooling, our additional Zumba-mates jumped into the car with these three-foot plastic candy canes. Strange and possibly dirty workout props. I was immediately puzzled, but they informed me in hush tones, “It’s for the dance! It’s for the dance!”
Sure, sure. Wait, what?
I let it go. I was jazzed to be heading into something totally new and even more jazzed when I saw the crowd. Old men, pregnant women, a really sweet girl that I tried to befriend my first day of high school during gym class (I think she recognized me, but thankfully, we made the unspoken agreement of sparing one another of fake catch-up small talk) and a few people who actually knew how to dance and then me: the newcomer. Everyone was aware that it was my first time, but I enjoyed the reassuring nods of “hey, you got this” and “just have fun.”
The first song in I, for some reason, felt like I knew what I was doing. My confidence rose and I began wondering why I had given up on my second-grade ballet career so quickly. Granted, I was in a place in class where I couldn’t totally see myself in the mirror so who knew what was actually happening, but in my mind, I was nailing it for a newbie and ready for a challenge.
A few more songs in, I felt the Pop Tart I ate that afternoon dancing with me. No help there. I knew buying the $2 box of the brown sugar cinnamon ones at Target was a mistake the moment I saw it. Had to reap what I had sown.
Whitney Houston? Nailed.
Bollywood? Nailed.
Some other random Zumba song? Nailed.
However, once we got to Michael Jackson’s “PYT,” we entered struggle city. It was the second game of bowling all over again. I start off strong, my ego puffs up, and I start thinking I missed my calling—that I should’ve hustled my friends a little more, put some money on the table. Then we opt in for a second game, and without fail, I start to find that I am physically incapable of sustaining my performance. I get tired and sloppy and start to realize how stupid this is. Who even talked me into this? Anyone who says they enjoy bowling is a liar.
I began falling limp. “PYT” called for footwork I could not deliver and took a mountain of mental energy as I watched the instructor with burning focus. It didn’t help that the following songs were salsa and required a thousand microscopic steps at a speed I had never asked my body to move with.
The older guy behind me asked if I could make it “look just a little hard” and not catch on so fast. This was sweet, but I also took the compliment with a grain of salt. Every time I’d spot him behind me, he was doing most of the moves backwards.
The best moment of the night, however, was when the whole class rushed the front of the room to retrieve their plastic candy canes—I guess they hadn’t brought theirs home to practice with as the tag-along neighbors did. I did not sign up for props, but Brittney started singing her Christmas smash hit, “My Only Wish” and I was suddenly nine years old in the living room with my friends making up a dance to a song that referenced things we didn’t need knowledge of at our unripe age.
Essentially, I inadvertently morphed into one of the Plastics doing their naughty Christmas dance on their school stage and I could no longer look at my figure in the mirror with respect.
Again, what had I gotten myself into and was the old man behind me okay with participating?
Come to find, he waved his candy cane with the best of them without shame. Meanwhile, I had never felt simultaneously more challenged—that routine wasn’t easy either—or more ridiculous in my life.
It was a blast though and a good workout.
I never want to stop trying new things even if I’m embarrassed and sore at the end of it.