As those of you who know me in “real life” can attest: I’m no dancer. I’m rhythm challenged, awkward at best.
Maybe you’ve even witnessed my seizure-like car “dance” when one of my favorite songs comes on the radio. I usually sing along to make it even more painful for my fellow vehicle occupants. I give it my all for the amusement of those traveling around me.
Or maybe you are a high school or college friend who watched me careen across the floor like a overly enthusiastic and gangly teenaged wildebeest.
Don’t even get me started about my “dances” at weddings. I’m sure they’re on YouTube somewhere if you need a laugh.
But now, I’ve put aside any shred of fear, of possible humiliation I have left. I’m putting it out there twice a week if I can: yes, I’m doing Zumba.
It’s more like a loud dance party and less like a workout. Unlike running where I get to zone out and let my mind wander, for me, Zumba requires concentration and focus. Or I might injure myself—or worse yet, someone else.
Bless our poor teacher Chris. I wonder how she can keep a straight face while I trip over my own feet, wildly gyrating off kilter and off beat. Luckily my classmates are too busy with the probably not very complicated routines to notice. I try to keep to one side of the room so I have a bit more space. It’s to prevent collisions, you see.
But each class I come away a little more humble, yet slightly more confident. And much sweatier than when I started.
Until next time,
PS: Someone wisely said to a beginning runner, “you’re doing better than someone who’s still on the couch.” The same applies here. So dance like no one’s watching. Chances are good they’re too busy attempting their own moves.