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Zumba Killed the Radio Star

Preface

I’m the type of person who believes that working out ONE time (even if its been months since the last time) gets results. I get home from the gym and I’m like, I can’t believe I don’t do this all the time, my waist is LITERALLY two inches smaller.

Chapter 1: The Gym

I’ve kind of given up when it comes to New Year’s resolutions. I like to think I’m pushing back against societal norms and pressures. That’s a thing, right? Especially if New Year’s is on a weekend. Obviously I’m not going to start working out and eating right on a Saturday. Clearly thats just asinine. I mean, on top of the fact that it goes against nature, what am I going to do with all of the food left over from New Year’s eve? I’m not throwing away a 5lb cheese ball, it’s a principle thing, I just won’t do it.

I like to ease into the new year the same way I ease into my jeggings. Gingerly and with due respect. When it comes to making any sort of alteration in my diet, I take my time until I’ve finished off everything in the house (including 1/4 filled cans of frosting, mini marshmallows from old hot chocolate, packets of Chick Fil A sauce, etc) and am writhing in pain from excess amounts of sugar and dairy. That’s really the sweet spot. That’s when I’m ready to get down to business.

So today I put on an uncomfortably snug pair of leggings and had a friendly stand-off with my three-year old until he agreed to get in the car. At this point I’ve already burned 500 calories trying to self-soothe as an alternative to reacting to my kid telling me to “get your shoes on, mom,” so I nearly throw in the towel. I remind myself that I can’t wear lycra every day and the day is coming when the snow will melt, slouchy sweaters will be benched, and actual pants must be worn. This gives me the courage to go on.

Chapter 2: The Tour

After dragging the kids around the gym on a 50 minute tour I briefly consider that nobody would fault me for leaving immediately following the explanation on locker safety. But again, I think of the jowls I’ll have to get cut off by the time I’m 40 and decide I’ll at least stretch while I scroll through Instagram. Best case scenario I pin some UNBEATABLE WORKOUT TIPS to my “Tight Bod in 2016” Pinterest board.  I owe my future plastic surgeon at least that much.

Chapter 3: The Suck

I walk past the group fitness (togetherness suck) studio and noticed a Zumba class was starting. An apparition of myself then appeared to my physical self and punched me in the face and told me I was a big, stupid loser and to go take the dumb class. So I did. Because I am a big loser, and I do what my other self tells me to do. Because she’s like, crazy fit, and emotionally stable, and supes laid back. So I took the Zumba class and Janet Jackson simultaneously choked on her Chia biscuits during her morning meditation . The experience was not unlike a post I wrote about beginning Barre classes after I had Robbie (refresh your memory here), in that I brought shame to my ancestors. I’m am 67 inches of gangly, whiteness in hot pink tennis shoes and a baseball hat. She’s saying samba, but I’m throwing out Napoleon Dynamite and just hoping I don’t hurdle myself into the nice, Asian guy next to me.

Chapter 4: Conspiracy

If the government happens to be tapping my life and watching my Zumba class from a satellite in space, I hope they had mercy. The reality is that the guy assigned to review my tapes called his buddies at the FBI and by the end of the second Merengue they were streaming it in a briefing room reserved strictly for meetings regarding nuclear threats. “Pass the Snow Caps!” one of them would say. “I can’t, I just peed a little,” responds the guy with the astigmatism. By the cool down song my body had gyrated to the point of exhaustion. I couldn’t even audibly slap my thighs to the beat anymore.

“Go on without me,” I told them.

“See you next time, same time!” they repied.

“We’ll see. So fun. Thanks, guys. Totally love this.”

And with damaged pride and a shooting pain in my groin, I was reminded that New Year’s resolutions are for suckers. But I can’t afford a double chin in my life right now, so I’ll probably go back.

Prolouge

Leonard, if you’re reading this, nobody eats Snow Caps anymore.

JAZZ HANDS
JAZZ HANDS

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6 thoughts on “Zumba Killed the Radio Star”

  1. There’s a picture frame hanging on your wall. How long have you lived there? Like 2 seconds. Stop being so on top of things.

    Wish I could come pretend to Zumba with you!

  2. My hips are fused to my body, I was not created to shake anything. Which is why I stick to purely spin and weights. I applaude your bravery.

  3. Jazz hands. Bwahaha! I’m just impressed you stayed. I went to Zumba once for a church activity and an old lady tried to give me tips. Thats when I knew my dance skills were much worse than I had previously thought.

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