I still can’t believe I let myself be talked into it.
So, I’m in my office with one of the other part-timers and she’s tells me about this ‘great’ exercise class–Zumba.
“It’s sooo much fun,” she said. “You should come with me.”
“I don’t do aerobics,” I said.
“Oh no, it’s not aerobics–just dancing. The class goes by real fast.”
Seeing how, last semester, I had convinced her once to meet me at the park early one Saturday morning where we walked for over two hours in the slightly cold weather, I figured it was only fair that I try this exercise class. Of course, she reminded me of that early Saturday morning outing. I reminded her we walked, we didn’t run. “Yea, but we walked really fast,” was her comeback and I really couldn’t argue with that point. I agreed to go with her that Thursday evening.
The Zumba class was held at a skating rink and it cost $5 to get in. My friend insisted we had to be up front, so we could “see” the instructor. The rink quickly filled and, I kid you not, there were close to 150 women packed into the place. Have I ever mentioned I don’t do real well in crowds? Honestly. I won’t even take the stairs between classes at the university because of all the people crammed in the stairwell. I’ve hyperventilated at the mall and had near panic attacks at crowded grocery stores. However, I managed to hold it together, though I kept expressing my concern of A. bumping into someone or B. someone bumping into me. My friend assured me it would be fine.
The instructor finally made her appearance and got up on the raised platform at the front of the rink. After a brief explanation for the ‘newbies’ she cued the music and the class began. For those of you unfamiliar with the ways of Zumba, the class is broken up into ‘sets’, each of which lasts approximately 10 minutes; there is a few seconds pause (in which everyone rushes to get a drink from their water bottles) and the next set begins. Fairly straight forward. The instructor does not call out the moves; you’re just suppose to watch and follow her.
The first “set” wasn’t too bad as it pretty much consisted of marching forward, doing a little jump whilst throwing your arms up in the arm and then marching backwards, doing another little jump and clapping once. Nothing too complicated, nothing I couldn’t handle. The next set was trickier and I had to resort to basically marching in place. A brief pause, then a change of music. This is were it got ‘interesting’. There is a very good reason why I don’t ‘do’ aerobics–I am one of the most uncoordinated people on the face of the earth. I have no ‘rhythm’ (which, by the way, is also the reason I don’t ‘do’ poetry–I can’t ‘hear’ the meter). I have nothing against dancing per se, provided it is A. in the privacy of my own home or B. I’m too drunk to give a shit or C. everyone else is too drunk to give a shit. Zumba did not meet any of these criteria.
Imagine the nerdiest, most awkward, most painfully clumsy high school dance scene from any movie–that was me. The set was complicated, consisting of turns one way and then the next, moving to the right and then to the left. I went right when everyone else went left; when they went left, I went right. They went forward, I went backward. I desperately tried to get it right; however, I couldn’t watch the instructor and watch where I was going. The more I screwed up, the more self-conscious I became and screwed up even more.
Then it happened.
I turned right when I should have turned left and the perfect blond beside me (wearing cargo pants and a tank top with “Zumba” written across her ample, yet perfect breasts) ran into me. Did she say “Sorry” or “Excuse me” or “You okay?” No. Bitch just kept right on going. Granted, I wasn’t hurt, I wasn’t knocked over, or physically injured. Psychically injured, yes, physically injured, no.
Mortified, I walked away. I would have walked right out the door and left except 1. I paid $5 damn dollars and 2. my keys were still at the front of the class. Instead, I went to the bathroom, got a drink of water, and tried to calm myself down. Yep, I was close to tears. Once I got a hold of myself, I went back to the floor, this time in the back where there was less chance of getting ran over and attempted, in a half-assed way, to finish the class. In the back, I was in the perfect position to observe. The final sets involved quite a bit of hip thrusting which I opted out of doing because A. it looks ridiculous, like you’re trying to hump the air and B. such moves should probably be reserved for the privacy of one’s own home.
Finally, the class ended and I made my way back to the front to retrieve my keys. My friend was waiting, gulping water from her water bottle.
“Hey, I saw you go to the back,” she said.
“You didn’t tell me that Zumba was just aerobics on crack,” was my response.
“Oh, you’ll like it better next time,” she said, to which I explained, in no uncertain terms, that there would not be a next time. I was not going to do this again.
Friday morning–I’m up, out the door, and at the park by 6:30 AM. After my 5 minute warm-up walk, I began my run. Within a few minutes, I found my ‘pace’, my breathing synchronized with the steady rhythm of my shoes hitting pavement. Sleep had healed my wounded psyche (pretty much anyway) and as I made my way through the park, I reflected on the previous night’s experience.
I’ve always been very self-conscious of my body, even when I was younger and ‘thin’. Awkward and klutzy, I never played sports, never took dance classes. On top of this, throw in a step-mother who was a size 0, a former cheerleader, and very critical plus a father whose idea of “joking” was to ridicule and it is little wonder that physical activities held no fascination for me. My safety zone was the world of books, of words, of academia, areas where I excelled and could feel just a little bit good about myself. Not that these things were important in the house where I grew up.
Zumba brought back those old feelings of inadequacy–I felt awkward, fat, and stupid. My self-worth trashed because I couldn’t figure out how to make my body do what everyone else was doing.
Running is different. Sure, I’m fairly self-conscious in my Under Armor shorts, but who is going to see me at 6:30 AM? I don’t run fast, but when my pace is steady, I feel graceful like one of those antelopes on one of those nature programs. Sometimes the sun is just right and I’ll see my shadow running along the ground–my shadow self is lean and I like to think it is the me that waits to come out, who is slowly emerging one run at a time.
Running is, often times, a solitary activity. No crowds. No blaring music. My friend admits she has to be ‘distracted’ when she exercises–ipod, TV, or a roomful of hip-thrusting, butt-wiggling women humping the air in time with the latest top 40 club music. And that’s okay. Whatever works best for her.
Not me. I like the solitude of running, being in tune with my body, listening to the music/thoughts/voices in my head. When I run, I’m at peace with myself.
