Fucking Zumba. I can’t even.

Well, Zumba pissed me the fuck off. Fucking Zumba. Gah. I just can’t even.

Let’s step back for a moment.

My apartment is a total wreck right now, because when I get home from the fucking gym, do I feel like straightening that shit up? No. No, I do not. What I feel like doing is getting in the pool with a Budweiser Straw-brr-rita and a cigarette, then resting my weary bones on the couch and watching an episode or two of Orange is the New Black while eating workout-reversing snacks.

My muscles would contest the idea that any amount of buttered popcorn or Oreos could ever be enough to undo the abuse that has been leveled upon them. But the scale don’t lie!

Actually, the scale does lie. At least, the one at the fucking gym does. Filthy deceiver. My weight on my digital scale at home first thing this morning, naked, was a good six pounds less than my weight last night, fully clothed, as told by the malingering gym scale. And while I’d love to believe that one body-pumping workout was enough to melt six pounds of fat right off me–and would that nature worked that way!–I know it’s all about the time of day, clothing and shoes, and the false witness of the motherfucking gym scale.

I rewarded my good intention of returning the the fucking gym tonight with another trip to my beloved Target. This time, I bought shorts AND a fancypants workout shirt that was on clearance.

IMG_20140610_171839153

Sucking in the “mummy tummy.”

This shirt is Advanced High Performance, bitches. That fabric is some Duo Dry Max up in there. It “wicks moisture fast.” Mama don’t want no fucking moisture against her skin. Wick that shit off!

Something I’ve learned about women’s workout clothes is that they have a couple things in common with toddler girls’ clothes. First of all, skorts. Grown-ass women can buy skirts with shorts on the inside. Clingy little peekaboo shorts that peer out from the hems. This is presumably for when you’re toddling around the gym on your legs that feel like you’ve broken their spirits until they’re practically infantile again, and you can fall on your ass while still looking cute.

The second thing women’s workout clothes have in common with toddler girls’ clothes is the color palette. Everything is pink or purple, neon or pastel. Because having a vagina apparently disqualifies you from appreciating the classic Crayola colors.

Of course, when I packed my gym bag this morning, I forgot my damn gym shoes, so I had to go home before Zumba unless I felt like shimmying my ass off while wearing black ballet flats. And I did not feel like doing that.

I should have known I was in for a fucking treat when I chatted up a couple of the regulars outside of the Zumba classroom (where sweet Candy was wrapping up pumping some bodies). The first thing they said to me was, “don’t get frustrated.”

Oh boy. That’s what my expression said: “oh boy.”

“Zumba’s kind of dancey, right?” I asked.

Yes, they explained, and if you can’t quite get all the sexy flourishes, just stick with the basic. They’ll show you the basic first, and then you can just do that.

Okay, cool. The basic. I can do anything that’s called “the basic.”

See, I’ve been mildly interested in Zumba ever since I watched an infomercial for it one time while I was getting my nails did. I like dancing! And I like the idea of tricking myself into working out by doing something that seems like fun.

But holy hell. This class was an hour of relentless choreography. There was no “the basic.” There wasn’t ANY fucking instruction from the teacher apart from some incomprehensible hand gestures everyone else in the class seemed to intuitively understand. One second we’re rock-stepping, and I’ve caught on just one or two moves after everyone else, and then the next second, the entire class is turning 180 degrees and twerking at me.

Is there such a thing as beginning Zumba? There must be. There is no fucking way the Zumba that packs community centers with moms at five bucks a pop caught on by throwing a fat-free instructor in front of them all just to booty-tooch an entire music video routine in their presence.

The instructor turned out to be someone I worked with in college. She’s one of those people I’ve seen around town maybe two or three times in the intervening twelve years since I graduated, and since I’m never sure she would have any idea who I am, I pretend I don’t see her. Shut the fuck up; you do it, too.

Honestly, I was really impressed by Zumba. I’d fucking love to be able to move like a hoochie club star. Unfortunately, though I recognized a bit of cha-cha here and a little rumba there, most of my moves were less Miley Cyrus and more Steve Urkel. Less Britney Spears; more Elaine from Seinfeld. This is in part due to my relative lack of coordination. I’m neither the most graceful nor the most graceless person in the world, but I just couldn’t pick that shit up. Not with these fucking body-pumped jelly legs. Not at top speed.

And all the salsa-themed music really just made me crave chimichangas.

So. Zumba. I don’t know that I’ll try that again. I spent a significant portion of the time sputtering around and just standing there because I couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on. I broke a sweat, but my interjections of “fuck!” were not because I could feel the burn this time. No, these fucks were exclaimed in pure pissivity. And pissivity is different from hatred. Hatred I can fucking work with. Pissivity just fucking sucks.

Tomorrow there are no classes I can take that don’t conflict with work or picking up my kids from day care, so I think I will do some fucking circuit training  and some exercises I found on the wise old Internet for my “mummy tummy.” More on that tomorrow.

Fucking Zumba.

Fucking Zumba.

Gym Day Two

  • Favorite part: Duo Dry Max, bitches. Wicks moisture fast!
  • Least favorite part: being dropped into the middle of an MTV Video Music Awards performance without a life jacket.

6 thoughts on “Fucking Zumba. I can’t even.

  1. I love this so. very. much. I’m reading your posts out loud to SteveKam every night. You’re better than the tee-vee. Also, though I’ve never gone to a Zumba class, your description is exactly the same as my sister’s the ONE time she attended a session. xo

  2. Those are my thoughts on zumba too!!!!!! I can’t stand it- I’ve been to a handful of classes and never once was anything BROKEN down for me. Are you supposed to magically figure out the moves by watching someone? My mind doesn’t work like that.

  3. And this is why I have never given it a chance. When they have a class just for old, fat beginners who hate working out I will consider it.

  4. Ha ha! As a faithful reader of both of your blogs, I can’t decide which I like better. The profound or the profane 🙂 Love them both!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s