You’ve decided to try Zumba, the Latin-inspired dance workout. According to the New York Times, 12 million people worldwide are shaking, shimmying, and salsa-ing their way to cardio health and fitness. It’s officially a “craze.”
A craze that doesn’t involve Japanese erasers or Wonder Pets or standing on line at Child’s Play? You’re in.
Zumba’s slogan is “Ditch the workout, join the party!” This speaks to you. You show up at the gym, ready to lose calories and have fun while doing it.
Evidently every other woman in Bethesda has also shown up for this class. You squeeze into a space by the windows. One of your neighbors glares at your proximity. You take another step back. You bump into the window.
In bounds the instructor. He is irrepressible, charming, and has a fabulous accent.
This is going well.
He puts on salsa music. Limbs start to fly. Yours, it must be said, flail. You try to keep up with the steps. You do not. You hop around like a preschooler with an urgent need. You glance at the mirror and then look away. Better not to know.
Your teacher joyfully shouts “Ai-yi-yi!”
You could get used to this. A lot of things are shouted at you during the course of your day, but “Ai-yi-yi” is not one of them.
You are getting into it. Your feet are moving frantically, your heart rate is up, you are in Miami! Or Rio! You are a Zumba whirlwind!
You channel your inner Shakira. This is not immediately apparent to those around you.
You do not care. You are hooked.
That night, you annoy your children by speaking to them in a bad Latin American accent. You begin to salsa while cooking. They stare at you wordlessly. Finally your teenager says firmly, “Please stop that.”
But you can’t stop. Zumba fitness is in the house! You lay down some merengue steps while slinging mac n’ cheese. Your children roll their eyes. You attempt to toss your hair. It is too short. You shrug. Dramatically.
“Must you be so staid and joyless?” you sniff, and then quickly add, “Don’t answer.”
“You just look….kinda weird,” your 11-year-old daughter says gravely.
“Does this mean I can call you “mamí?” your husband chimes in.
You glare at him.
“I’m just trying to be encouraging,” he says.
The next morning, you wake up. Your muscles have contracted to approximately 3/10s of their normal length.
You may have overextended yourself.
At each step on the staircase, you gasp a little. It takes you 15 minutes to descend.
You stiffly make your way to the coffee pot. Somewhere Shakira is weeping softly for you.
You start making the kids’ lunches.
A distant Latin beat sounds in your brain.
You murmur, “Ai-y-yi” as you slide your fingers along the sandwich baggie.
You grin.
You’ll be back.
Bring it, Shakira.
