Zumba, in case you’re not in the know, is a form of dance exercise. Dancercise perhaps? Or maybe exerdance?
Anyway, it’s something mostly women do and it’s about moving to music in a choreographed way.
I went today. Yes, to a Zumba class.
I moved to music. I want to stress that I didn’t move in the choreographed way the others in the class moved, and when I say ‘moved’ I’m not using the word in the usual way the word is used.
After a time the instructor looked at me and mouthed (over the loud, thumping Latin rhythms) “Sharon, you’re supposed to be moving”. I took umbrage. I was moving!
Yes, she said, but you have to move on the outside as well.
Oh.
I looked in the mirrors filling the wall in front of me and where the instructor’s arms were above her head, mine were flapping in the vicinity of my waist; where her hips were swivelling at a hundred miles an hour, mine were shifting somewhat erratically; where her feet were going right foot tap to the front, left foot tap to the front, right foot double tap to the front, mine were going right foot … what? Just … what?
And she wasn’t just doing these things in isolation … she was doing them all at the same time. In time. Quick time. And then she sped up.
Crikey.
I looked … well, not like I was dancing, that’s for sure.
But I was dancing on the inside. And that has to count for something.
Doesn’t it?
Musings from the cold 