Zumba

I distinctly remember having a conversation with a friend about Zumba in the past.  I was told I shouldn’t waste my energy because it was basically a lot of over-the-hill, pudgy women Sweatin’ to the Oldies.  To put it frankly.  She convinced me not to bother.

However, when a new “mommy friend” invited me to come with her to try a class at her gym I was astronomically more open-minded.  My new perspective on the matter was mainly because of my desire to socialize and get into shape.  (“Get into shape”…weird saying…like I’m going to turn myself into a triangle by jogging.)  I thought I could ease into an addition of cardio in my lifestyle with some booty shaking.  Besides, my new mommy friend was raving about it being a fun workout.  I decided to give it a whirl, and if nothing else it would be an hour I got to socialize with a real-life adult-who-isn’t-my-husband.

A year of tap when I was about 7 and shaking what my mama gave me in clubs for much of my twenties does not a dancer make.  But I have always had a good ear for a beat and rhythm even if my steps were a little robotic. 

The music at the Zumba class was not slow.  It was not oldies.  It was hip hop meets Latin meets Bollywood.  I made the mistake of pre-judging my instructor as a poor dancer.  You know, you go to an exercise class to lose weight and get a hot, toned body.  If the instructor is packing weight then you feel like your own outcome may not be optimal.

Instructor=amazing.  Mama B=dismal at best.  I’ve heard that certain brain activities and coordination skills get tweaked after you have children, but I was not expecting that I would look like Frankenstein stumbling through the flamenco a noticeable beat behind.  And I would know because my friend and I had fearlessly staged ourselves in the front row, directly in front of the mirrored wall.

I felt like I hadn’t had a baby, I’d had a stroke.  I couldn’t even clap on the same beat as the instructor and that is a skill I could previously claim mastery of on my resume.  My joints and hips were practically squeaking in protest.  Basically, I looked like I was dancing with a stick up my ass.  And I TRIED so HARD to loosen up and get on beat!  Futile.

Oh, and I had forgotten to wear a sports bra.  Had packed one.  Left it at Mommy Friend’s house.  Everyone in that class was in serious jeopardy of being sprayed down with a breastmilk-shake if I had actually been able to give it my all.

What to take away from the class: burned lots of calories, worked up a sweat, and Liam likes watching Mommy practice those silly dance moves.  What to bring to class next time?  A sports bra.  And maybe a t-shirt that says “I just had a baby” on the back.  I don’t know why but I always feel like I have to explain that to people.  I move like an electro-shock therapy patient because “I just had a baby.”  (My hair hasn’t been washed in 4 days, I have crusted drool down my shirt, and I’m wearing pajamas because “I just had a baby.”)  How long does that “just” in “just had a baby” count?

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One thought on “Zumba

  1. Your best, most true, work yet. I am DYING over here. I went through this exact same thing. The whole “I-just-had-a-baby” gig will last for nearly a year. When people stopped looking impressed at my figure when I was with Lucy, I assumed the moment had passed. You will recover your clapping skills, and soon, you will join me at kick boxing instead of Zumba. (Okay, it’s true – I do kind of strut into the classroom and act all smug because I am doing the hard class and they are doing the weird dance class. And that is so not cool-momma of me. But in fairness, I am now two years down and just now fit. So I’m feeling chuffed.)

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