Yesterday I cashed in on one of my New Year’s resolutions: I went to Zumba. While my resolution wasn’t based in my desire to “get off the couch” per se — Cam and I are currently training for a half-marathon in March— I did promise to make a point of varying my types of weekly workouts 1) so that I don’t hurt myself by over-running, and 2) because I am paying for fitness classes as part of my gym membership, so why not actually take them? Before we moved ACE houses I had been religiously attending a pure barre class on Tuesdays that I adored. And, at the beginning of the year I sought to make the drive up north to attend my old classes, but the hassle and time commitment have thoroughly dissuaded me from hopping into my car and strapping in for a 45 minute commute in lieu of, uh, I don’t know, driving to the gym that is 5 minutes away from my house and killing it on the treadmill while doubling my “runner’s high” with a good healthy dose of HGTV’s “Fixer Upper.” If you haven’t tried it, you are sorely missing out: There’s nothing quite like blowing off stress while hitting your stride in tune with the charming JoJo and goofy Chip Gaines.
Anyway, I had resolved to attend at least one fitness class per week to supplement my training schedule and mix up my routine. While looking at the schedule, I was invigorated by the seemingly endless class options that lay available to me—would I chose the familiar, comfortable yoga on Monday nights or would I dip my toes into something new and explore the widely acclaimed P-90x on a Wednesday class? The possibilities! My elation quickly deflated like air from a tired birthday balloon, however, when I realized just how many people were signing up for these workout classes. Indeed, from atop my secure treadmill perch I watched, wide-eyed and utterly horrified, as herds upon herds of people flooded the gym to get their workout class sweat on.
In fact, lately the entire gym seems dangerously close to exceeding the maximum capacity quota affixed to the wall near the entrance. It’s certainly no secret what these peoples’ New Years resolutions are. Where did all of these gym rats come from? While I encourage and applaud any determination to get healthy and in-shape, I do not particularly enjoy feeling like I am drowning in other peoples’ sweat—my own is quite enough to handle, thank you very much—because every treadmill in the entire facility is in use[1]. In fact, the gym has had a slightly “Hunger Games-esque” sort of feel lately: People go to shocking lengths to viciously defend their workout territory, save spots for friends (that never seem to actually arrive…I’m on to you!), and spread out what seems to be their entire closet in the locker room so that no one else can possibly utilize any of the what should be ample space. In fact, the other day I’m pretty sure I saw one lipstick glad, rhinestone emblazoned gym-goer throw a Katniss-like, firey charred arrow look at another woman in movie star makeup and a perfectly coifed up do[2] vying for the same elliptical. Things got FIERCE. Part of me was intrigued, part of me was confused, part of me was annoyed, but all of me was terrified. These ladies meant BUSINESS, and that meant that their razor sharp stick-on eyelashes were about to be wielded as weapons if someone didn’t quickly check her pride and acquiesce. Signing up, they make you sign a gym waiver, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t mention anything like this…
Upon fully weighing the various consequences that might come with attending any of the offered classes, I finally settled on Friday night Zumba. I mean, how many people would really be at a fitness class at 6pm on a Friday? People have lives and forget about the gym on Fridays, right?[3] Zumba it is!
I arrived at the gym thirty minutes before the start of class so I could ensure my “ticket” (and therefore admittance) into the class. Despite my aforementioned confidence that the timing of the class would make it less popular than others, a nervous adrenaline-fueled frenzy still coursed through my body as I swiped my id card to register for the class: Would I make it? Would it be full? Ding! I was in! Score.
After realizing that I had in fact beaten the Bastille-style storming of the fitness class ticket dispenser that typically paints the thirty minutes before any fitness class with a definitive sense of impending doom, I decided to celebrate my victory with a brisk walk on the treadmill. And that’s when I saw her: Raquel.
Now who is Raquel, you may ask? Raquel is the best Zumba instructor in the world. The world, I tell you! And I, who have only had class with two different Zumba instructors before, should know. I mean she was better than Juan[4], so she must be the best. In fact, I had only danced with Raquel once before when she substituted for Juan’s class[5], but that’s all I need. This woman’s dance moves are SOLID. I’m talking “Beyonce-you-better-check-yourself-because-this-chick-could-BURY-you-in-a-dance-off” kind of solid. As in, “Shakira-your-hips-called…-they DO-indeed-lie” kind of solid. Raquel’s got it.
When the fated time came, I entered the class studio and took my place in the corner next to three middle-aged women who clearly have been doing this for a while. And by “clearly have been doing this for awhile” I don’t necessarily mean to infer that these women looked like particularly gifted Zumba-goers. Trust me, there were plenty of those types in the class[6], but these women were in a league of their own. As if I didn’t already suspect this, they made it abundantly clear when all three turned to me and, in unison, said hello, welcomed me to the “crazy corner,” and warned me that I was in for an experience, if not a full-on show. I told them to bring it on.
Finally it was time. Raquel closed the door, synced the music, and gave the class a pep talk that included both sentiments of non-judgment and encouragement to invoke lioness prowess/dancing sexual ferocity. I’m not sure I know how to do that, Raquel, but I will try, and I promise I will not judge myself for my inevitable shortcomings to dance like a sexy lion.
In the span of 45 minutes I learned how to “bootie bounce,” belly dance, properly[7] Whip and NaeNae, “kind of” salsa[8], not tango[9], and not run into any of the ladies in the “crazy corner” despite their righteously promised craziness. These women got DOWN: Their were arms flailing, booties bumping, and screams of devoted enjoyment erupted from their throats in ill-timed throes of joy.
But none of the other women could touch Raquel—the “Dancing Queen”—herself. I swear, I don’t know how that woman moves her hips that way, but she does so with so much confidence and enthusiasm that it doesn’t seem “sexy” in the way that most people might be fixated on. She simply seems fierce, strong, and in complete control of her body: She masters her hips, and they’ll do what she tells them, gosh darn it! And with Raquel’s glee-filled, unassuming, optimistic energy and genuine desire for all of her devotees[10] to have fun— How can you not admire her? I mean, the fact that she is able to distract me from looking at myself in the mirror and diligently concentrate on emulating her moves to the point where I feel like I am actually becoming her is a feat in and of itself, because I’m pretty sure I actually look like this…
But shh! I’m in Zumba! And, in this moment, I am not a white girl with no rhythm who should probably stick to running… I am : Zumba Master and Hip-Shaker Extraordinaire! Look out, Beyoncé: Me and these girls in the “crazy corner—We’re “THE DANCERS!”
[1] In fact, I’m pretty sure one treadmill across the gym floor has a couple on it… I get that you want to work out together and be all “cute,” but come on. That can’t be allowed.
[2] The ladies at my gym employ a very, shall we say, “unique” fashion sense that I have yet to A) pick up on and B) fully understand. Why does one need to wear a full, padded bra (which is even more extravagant than what I consider my “real” bras) and an entire bottle of perfume in order to be considered “dressed” for the gym. How do you have full eye makeup and perfectly curled hair at 8am on a Saturday morning? Clearly I didn’t get the memo. But don’t listen to me: This is coming from a girl who’s Mitchell Corn Palace t-shirt has turned from blue to a scary shade of black mid-run and who’s Notre Dame white baseball hat has embodied an interesting shade of sweat-stained yellow. Yeah, I’ll just keep quiet over here and let you ladies do your thing.
[3] Cough, cough. Right?
[4] Fun fact: The first time I did Zumba with Juan last year was during one of his “Zumba Gold” classes. My Zumba-ignorant thought process went something along the lines of, “Oh, gold must mean that it’s really good!” Turns out “Zumba Gold” is so good that it brings all the eighty-year-old grandparents out of the nursing home down the road so they can get their disco moves on in antiquated leotards. Who knew?
[5] Gasp! I’m such a traitor! I am sorry, Juan!
[6] Side note: How do all the Latina women in my class—even the abuelitas (not even kidding)— magically have the natural rhythm and hips to DOMINATE any song that comes on? This white girl is jealous.
[7] Turns out, I have been doing it incorrectly all this time. I am not ashamed: Now “WATCH ME…”
[8] And “kind of not” salsa. Yeah, I didn’t really pick up on the whole salsa thing… I’ll stick with chips and salsa and leave my feet out of it.
[9] Although, to be fair, I feel like I could almost be there… Almost. Tango, I will beat you yet!
[10] …no matter how musically incompetent they might be…
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