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?