Jan 1978 - June 2011. Cause of Death: Zumba

I have heard of the Zumba phenomenon from a number of my girlfriends, all of whom said it was awesome.  Well, when I got home to my parents' house in NJ and saw my mom's gym schedule with several Zumba classes every day, I decided I was going.  Especially when she told me I looked like I was pregnant in my picture of me with Teresa from RHONJ.

Zumba is the latest trend in exercising.  Some genius somewhere realized that she was keeping in shape by going to da' club and figured she could capitalize and make money if she shared the concept of exercise via dancing with other fatties people who want to stay healthy.  Basically, when you take the class, you burn calories by dancing to Latin or hip hop music.  Sounds good enough, right?  Back in the day, I could booty shake with the best of them.  I mean, come on, I was a dancer for 10 years.  I had rhythm.  I had moves.  I could do this, right???  WRONG SISTA!

So off to Zumba I go with my mom - who has also never tried it - and I was excited to see what the class held.  The room was packed with every type of woman you could imagine.  Older women, young women, pregnant women, heavy women.  Even a skinny asian lady who apparently didn't want to wait for the instructor and "warmed up" by doing some of her own moves.  This chick was in it to win it.  Homegirl even had on legit dancer shoes.  What???  So, I see the instructor over in the corner getting the music set up to the song she wanted to start with.  She gets up to the front of the class and just starts doing her thing.  And everyone else knew to start with her!  HUH???  I'm used to the instructors putting on the little headset mic and saying something like: "Hey everyone!  I'm Tammy and welcome to (insert appropriate workout class).  Let's start off with our warm up. Legs apart AAAAAND big breath in..."

Yeah, JLo (that's what I'm going to call her because I'm sure she was a backup dancer for her at one point) starts busting a move ASAP.  Well, I'm not about to look lost, so I start getting my grove on.  We're shakin'. We're steppin'. We're mamba-in'.  I'm sweating so much I look like I just jumped in the damn pool.  My toes on my right foot are numb - probably out of fear - and I can feel my fat on my body shaking just a half a beat off.  I do the best I can since I'm new. *Side note: remember, my 59 year-old mother is in the class too, choosing to go in the back of the room, and I decide not to look at her because I'm sure I will start laughing at her WTF expression that I am positive is on her face.*  JLo stops.  Asian Zumba Lady goes to get her water.  Some ladies reach for a towel and their water.  I want to collapse.  I think: "That wasn't so bad.  Time for the cool down." BWAHAHAHAHAHA!  That was only 10 minutes of the class.  Let me repeat for those who missed that: THAT WAS ONLY 10 MINUTES OF CLASS.  Holy shit, I think I'm going to die.  Tell my daughter I love her. My mother comes up to me and says: "You know, we can leave.  Go get Starbucks." I look at the pregnant girl and the lady who is probably older than my mom and I reply: "Not if preggo and grandma stay."  So commence round two.  Ding Ding Ding.

JLo starts in again, and this time there's more shaking involved. And turning. And stepping with crazy flailing arms.  I find solace in the two other fellow curvy ladies in my area also moving about as well as I am.  They too have the "what the hell did I get myself into" looks on their faces.  What doesn't help is that the music JLo has chosen is Latin music.  Not that I have an issue with it.  It's just that I have never felt as coordinated dancing to it as Latin women are.  It's in their DNA. They come out of the womb knowing how to salsa. Again, JLo stops and I fall for it again.  Whew!  Thank God we're done.  ONLY FIVE FRIGGIN' MINUTES HAVE PASSED.  I now know what hell is like.  My lower back is one more shimmy from going into complete spasm.  I have heard how medical experts say the body breaks down near death.  I have a slight clue what they are talking about.  My mom shoots me a "It's not too late to leave" look.  Again, grandma and mom-to-be are still in the corner gearing up for more.  I grab my water, chug some down, shake my head, and get ready to go.  Not until the pregnant lady and grandma leave.  Round 3....bring it.

So rather than go through my slow and painful demise, I will give you the condensed version.  Several more sessions of "dancing" occurred during which I realized I should have not only packed a sports bra for my trip, but also worn it.  My poor twins were in places they had never been before.  I noticed several other women checked out of the class early opting to save themselves in order to see another yoga class.  JLo just kept right on bouncing.  She had to have sucked down about 10 Red Bulls prior to the class because if she's like this normally, I may have to resort to drastic measures.  What sustains my endurance is thinking to myself: "your mom said you looked pregnant" and not wanting to be perceived as such.  What makes me laugh - and I say that loosely because laughing would have required breathing which was something I was struggling with by 20 minutes in - was when JLo asked why she couldn't hear anyone having fun.  It's because we were all too busy trying to keep up and not die.

Now let me take a minute to reflect on the dancing aspect of this particular form of exercise.  I was pretty confident in my ability to dance and keep rhythm my whole life.  Like I said, I was a dancer.  Following beat was something that came naturally to me.  I remember my girlfriend telling me that her ability to dance left after she had a baby.  I told her she was silly and that she could still dance.  Her reply was that she looked like an old, white lady rather than someone who could keep up with the crowd she went to high school with.  I remember thinking, "Pshhh, that won't be me.  I will maintain my mad dance skills after I have a baby."  I hate it when I'm wrong.  It's almost like, without any sort of control over the change, your body begins to respond to music in a way never before experienced.  You think you can still move and grove like the good old days at da' club, but in reality, you look like a woman from a bad '80s movie.  I think when you're in the hospital either pushing your kid out or having a c-section, what the doctors don't tell you is that your ability to dance is removed along with the placenta.  You don't have a choice.  Unless you're a celebrity or very rich, you are unable to afford a cure.  You are forever diseased with looking like a rah-tard on the dance floor.

Well, finally, Zumba is completely over.  If there was a heart monitor attached to me, it would be flatlined.  Grandma and preggo are over thanking the instructor. I want to punch her in the face, but can't move my legs to get over there.  Despite all of this, I must be a masochist because rather than thinking "OMG I am so never doing this shit again," instead I think "I am so doing this again".  Why you ask?  Because I refuse to let something that I used to be good at defeat me.  I refuse to go gently into that good Zumba class and allow some booty shakin' to kill me.  I don't want to be a fat mom and get to the age of 50 or so and look back thinking I wasted my 30s.  So come Monday, I will be in Zumba again with my game face on.  Bring it JLo. Bring it.