I don’t love to exercise. At all. In any way. I’m never going to be that person who’s addicted to spinning, who finds enlightenment through yoga, or who gets (LOL!) a runner’s high.
I work out for one reason only: to be thin. If ONLY my body were predisposed to be simply being “skinny fat,” I’d never burn a single calorie by choice. I’d move through life like a smug little veal, snickering at people dashing off to their body pump and step classes. See ya later, suckers—I’ll jiggle my way home with a bag of chips. Weeee!
But unfortunately and unfairly, if left to its own devices, my body gets just plain fat fat. I’m getting married in November and waddling down the aisle simply isn’t an option. Any way I slice it, all signs point to GET YOUR LOVE HANDLES TO THE GYM, PLEASE.
My solution is to make my workouts as diverting and distracting as possible. I need to trick my mind into thinking I’m doing something else. No gutting it out in the weight room, no iPod-free jogs. That’s why I decided to try Zumba.
Despite my inherent sloth, I love to dance. LOVE IT. I’m the first one on the floor and have no problem shaking my moneymaker when my jam comes on. But enthusiasm, sadly, doesn’t always equal talent. I often find myself wildly careening around the dance floor, no real moves to speak of. It’s neither pretty nor safe for anyone in a 10-foot radius.
I was hoping that maybe Zumba could not only simulate a night out at a club, but also help me shape my dance “talent” into something that wasn’t a public nuisance.
Within the first three minutes of Zumba, I knew I was on the right track. My overzealous feet instantly took to the simple yet sexy salsa moves, and there so many hip thrusts, pelvic swirls, and shouts of Dale! that I felt like maybe Pitbull was actually in the room with us, clad in one of his sharp suits, just waiting with a bottle of champagne when it was all over.
Before I knew it, the music slowed, the moves became more languid and the deep breathing began.
“Wait, what’s happening?” I asked the lady next to me.
“Cool down,” she panted. “We’re done!”
And then I said something bizarre: “Already?”
I was shocked to realize that I was actually having fun and didn’t want class to end. WHO WAS I?!
Not only had I survived Zumba, I truly enjoyed it. All I had hoped to get from the class was a few meager minutes where I convinced myself I was out with the girls, shakin’ that thang, but weirdly, Zumba was better. No tottering around on heels, no vodka sodas splashed down my back, no drained bank account and hangover the next morning!
And even better, a load of my bridal stress had evaporated. The invitation font decision I’d been agonizing over all morning suddenly didn’t seem so harrowing, and most importantly, nor did my seemingly impossible goal of shedding for the wedding.
I left feeling like I had a plan, like I was finally in control of my stress, my weight and even my dancefloor happy feet.
And that’s worth busting a move over.
Find a class near you here.