Between 2 - Zumba

            I used to be a dancer. Take note I speak of this in the past tense. That is because I think my Zumba class may kill me.

            After my weight loss of sixty pounds last year, I was into the idea of tightening up the loose skin. I bought a small exercise machine. Like most everyone else that is not a model in an infomercial I found that the machine makes a really good coat rack.

            I have come to the conclusion, and it didn’t take long to get there, that I hate exercise. The firm conviction I had to exercise daily at home quickly turned into a mere twinkle of intent. So, I changed my strategy. I thought if I had to request time off, to get to class on time – and then ‘pay’ for a class, perhaps I would be more dedicated or at least reluctant to skip out on the exercise routine.

            I got the permission. I signed up for the class. I paid the fee. I’d like to say, “I went. I saw. I conquered.” I can’t.

I pant and sweat trying to keep up with an instructor that thinks she is auditioning for her own infomercial and a classroom full of students a third my age.      

And the horror of the mirrored room, I have the coordination of a two year old and the grace of an elephant. My lose thighs flap like flags in a breeze and my upper arms move like jello on a kid's table during Easter Sunday dinner.

            Am I discouraged? In a word – Yes!

            Last night I was late to my writing group because I had to attend the Zumba class first. I sat down at the table with my writer friends. Them with their fish and chips, spaghetti and meatballs, and French dips - me with my ‘half’ Caesar salmon salad and iced tea. I’ve gained three pounds since starting the Zumba class. They say muscle is heavier than fat? Can I count on that?

            I contemplated that information and decided to face up to the truth – I am not a dancer. I am a writer. At which point I did not give up, rather I gave in to a hot chocolate with a shot of Bailey’s topped with whipped cream. 

            Like Scarlet, “Tomorrow is another day.” In my case, filled with Zumba until the 10 weeks are up – then I’m back to the computer and doing what I know I do best, writing.