Breathing heavily, I attempt a discrete effort at stemming the miniature waterfall trickling down my forehead. I brush aside my sweaty bangs and stumble through yet another salsa step, nearly crushing the nimble toes of the far more coordinated girl on my left.
Due to the persistence of my roommate and several conveniently placed posters inviting me to “ditch the work out and join the party,” I chose to attend a “Zumba” class. Though a Latin-infused aerobic dance workout may initially sound more appealing than my traditional thirty-minute elliptical routine, I still had misgivings. Yet in some remarkable act of masochism or sheer stupidity I found myself slinking into the back of room 134 of the Richards Building last Monday afternoon. Becky, the perky instructor, greeted us with a high ponytail and headset mic to ensure we wouldn’t miss one word of her overly enthusiastic encouragement. She seemed the personification of aerobic Barbie, albeit more modestly clad. However, Becky failed inform me that Zumba combines three of my least favorite things: dancing, athletic activity and public humiliation. Granted, my aversion to the aforementioned activities could stem from my complete lack of skill in the first two areas.
Throughout my teenage years I avoided stake dances at all costs. While I could handle a simple rocking step with my feet, I never knew what to do with my hands. Consequently, I often twirled my hair or fidgeted with my phone to avoid awkward flailing. Similarly, my experience with organized sports boasts no great successes. My inability to remember which basket to shoot toward seriously hampered my brief stint in 7th grade basketball. It may have been halfway through the season before I realized the teams switched baskets at halftime.
Unfortunately, my athletic coordination hasn’t improved since my middle school glory days. I can’t seem to figure out how each of the girls around me remain so perfectly in sync. Did I miss a dress rehearsal? Do they all possess a telepathic ability to anticipate Becky’s every fist pump, even when facing the back wall? It’s as if a puppeteer has strung invisible cord through each blonde, impeccably toned body, yielding almost robotically unified leg lifts.
Yet despite this distinct self-awareness of my every misstep, no one really seems to notice my clumsiness. They’re all too focused on reaching Zumba zen, coordinating their cha-chas to Santana’s Smooth. Perhaps I’ll never “dance like no one’s watching,” but Zumba might just be close enough.
