“You’re looking go-o-od. You’re looking go-o-od. You’re looking go-o-od.” The zumba leader sings her encouragement.
Looking at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind her, I think, You lie. I look like a bag of disconnected limbs–arms and legs flailing in different directions, none of which is following her lead.
There are times, I think, when I should just stay home and act my age. What am I trying to prove? I slip through a tight knot of coordinated bodies to hug the side of the gym and sip Gatorade. I’m sure I am sweating my electrolytes into an imbalance.
I’m new at this gym, and don’t dare look any of the other women in the eye. I’m too stubborn to admit I can’t do it. I’m in the middle of the room. Everyone in front of me can see my flailings in the mirror, and they’re probably throwing off the people behind me. Why didn’t I think to stand in a corner?
I end up sitting out during two songs.
After class, I grab my towel and Gatorade and head for the door. I do not look right or left. I walk directly to the locker room with my tail still tucked under and my tummy pulled in.
As I turn the corner into the locker room, I notice a wrinkled woman looking as sun baked as a mud pie. Great, a woman like me who probably spends her days on a lawn chair and comes here for the gentle yoga class I passed up.
“Looks like you love the sun,” I say, eager to tell my story to someone who understands that plunging into a zumba class is not the best choice for a Medicare recipient.
“Only on weekends,” she says as she smiles. “I work 40 hours a week.” I gulp. What kind of work does she do? Demonstrate how to knit in a yarn shop? “Pretty good for an 80-year-old,huh?”
I want to shrivel myself up into a ball and disappear. Instead I recover and say, “You must have great genes. What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a cook. Work the early morning shift. Get off at one and come here to work out an hour. Then I help out a young friend in her day care. She’s got 12 kids, so is happy to see me come for a few hours.”
My mind revs up: this woman does not need zumba. Her 12-hour day makes my 45 minute-minus-two-songs zumba class seem like I’m the one who is knitting.
My 40-hour work week consists of reading and writing. I cannot fathom a 12-hour day standing on my feet. My feet have traveled miles of hospital floors, thank you very much, and they’ve told me they’re done.
I have to ask, “Do you plan to keep up this schedule until you’re 90?
“Sure am.” Her eyes shine. “Sure beats sitting around,” she says as she trots off.
I begin to wonder what I’ll be doing when I’m 80. Another ten years. I get an idea: tell my feet they’ve been slacking long enough. After all, I’ve been retired over ten years.
The Chicago marathon is coming up. If I take three zumba classes a week, I can be strong enough by Christmas to start training for 2012.
How about you? Want to join me?
The subject line caught my eye. My only experience with Zumba was zoombad! Wrong. it was fun, but impossible to keep up. Your post is an inspiration to get back into the Evolution classes at the Equinox. We’ll see.
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Good luck! I think I’ve learned my lesson with the “regular” zumba. But there must be a slower version for some of us that need it.
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I survived my first Zumba class this week. Fun but exhausting. I’m ready to go again! 56 years old, and I can do this!
Joy
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Hurray for you! It is possible. I found out my trainer, who also teaches classes in my building, is certified in Zumba Gold, something I didn’t even know existed, but it’s geared for seniors. So I may get to experience it someday.
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