Zumba

I took the plunge last week and purchased a 10-session pass to our local Zumba studio.  Located a convenient 1 minute, 30 seconds drive away, this location caters to my inexplicable need to never arrive early at anything casual  (and thus, through a variety of extenuating circumstances, means I'm routinely late).

Having already picked up the paperwork, I chatted with two other newbies who were filling out the forms as I waited to get my card.  They had the great idea of checking out all local Zumba studios and selecting the top one based on price, instructors, comfort, and classes.  I felt momentarily guilty for not having that brilliant thought, but quickly dismissed it when I remembered how much I loathe shopping for anything and how much dealing with details taxes me these days.  Plus, the convenient location...well, I can't go wrong.

Nearly thirty or forty women bounced along with our smiling instructor.  I found myself frequently wearing a smile, too, as we did a little salsa move here (thank you, Arthur Murray) or a little bit of Cuban walks there (another check for the dance classes) to songs like "Livin' La Vida Loca."  The hip movements and shoulder shimmies, on the other hand?  My smile veiled my laughter at my inability to move that way with any sort of decorum or rhythm.  A good reason to have located myself at the back of the class.  Still, I have to admit, I enjoyed it thoroughly.  Surprisingly, I wasn't terribly tired after the hour-long session.

I found out at my next class from a well-informed participant that the rigorous workouts are with Jorge.  I find myself anticipating this next instructor, the one who leaves your calves sore two days later and knows how to keep a dancer's rhythm.