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I went to Zumba last night with Leslie.



I was pleased to be able to keep up aerobically with no problem, and though it was a good sweaty workout I didn't feel completely drained by it. All my muscles are sore today except the bike ones--even my hands, and I barely remember using them, but you do.

There were only six people in the class, and it took place next door to the gym in a salsa club: black walls, huge sunken dance floor, black-draped tables all around the edge, and a glittering bar. Great sound system. The teacher, Michele, looked like a movie star in her official Zumba gear and a sparkly headband.

So here's me, literally wrong-footed most of the time, unable to figure out how to do that thing with my arms, staring at Michele's feet, thinking, thinking, thinking about one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, telling myself that even if my moves are all wrong, it's still great exercise as long as I keep moving, and yet keenly aware of myself as an uptight, locked-up, clumsy, unrelaxed middle-aged white woman with no hip movement whatsoever...


...and of course the more I thought these thoughts, the more they became true and probably the stupider I looked.

I wonder if it's possible to change that, even a little: to find some remnant of the natural dancer that got tsked out of me early on. Not having the body to be a Serious Dancer should never be the cause of a person not dancing.

I'm going again tomorrow after work.

Crossposted from Dreamwidth, where there are comments. | Comment at Dreamwidth.

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