Tuesday, March 19, 2013
That sent me on a scavenger hunt. Find Zumba in our tiny town surrounded by Amish. Not that the Amish don't do Zumba, heaven forbid I stereotype, but if they do, I have my doubts that they'd open their doors to the 41 year old mid-life-criser who may or may not wear too much eye make-up, continues to buy my clothes in the Junior Department of Kohls and who just recently stumbled onto the miraculous push-up bras of Victoria Secret that actually have my girls standing up again. (And my husband rejoiced...as did my belly button which was starting to panic as they inched further and further south with each passing year.) But enough about my issues.
I began pumping my clients for Zumba info and eventually struck pay dirt. A church in a nearby town offers classes twice a week and one quick phone call later, I had the days and times. Boom.
My first day, I found the church and followed the only sounds of conversation I could hear until I walked into a medium sized room in the basement where two women were working on the sound system. One was in her mid-fifties and the other in her mid to late seventies. The older of the two glanced up and said, "Are you here for Zumba?"
My first thought was, "I think the real question is, are YOU here for Zumba," but I refrained. I told her I was and two seconds later, she was tying a jangly gypsy skirt around my waist. Oh gosh. Clearly, I've stumbled into something really weird here.
Several more women in their 60's and 70's arrived and tied on their skirts. It turned out that the woman in her fifties was the teacher and she started the music. I wasn't familiar with the first song, but it was pretty slow and much of the chorus was "Kneel at the cross." I love old hymns, but at this point, my inner pole dancer bolted for the door. I, however, stayed. And because I border on the brutally honest side of things, I'll tell you why. The only reason I stayed that first night was because that 50-something year old woman leading class has the body of a teenager. She's obviously doing something really right and I was gonna stick around and find out what it was. And two songs later, I did.
What followed was an hour of Hip Hop, Swing Dancing, Bollywood, Line Dancing, Salsa, Tribal...you name it, we did it. And are you ready for this? During one of the dances, the oldest woman in the class ran to one of the poles supporting the basement ceiling and whirled herself around it. Holy crap, she has an inner pole dancer. And I caught a glimpse of what I'll be like in 35 years.
I'm a regular in that class now. I willingly tie on my jangly skirt and feel a little sorry for the hundred women at the other Zumba class who don't know the thrill of controlling the sound of your butt by how hard you shake it. I've come to look forward to listening in on the detailed conversations about hot flashes and then stand there glowing when they refer to me as "the kid."
These women accepted me into their class and I've come to dearly love each and every one of them.
But here's the thing, and this is important. I don't care if you're 8 or 80. If you're standing beside me when we do "I'm Sexy And I Know It", consider yourself in a Dance Off. And bring it.
Monday, March 4, 2013
"The fact that I wanted to gouge out her eyeballs and shove them into my ears to escape the irritating sound of her voice doesn't make me unsociable."
"I have a sensitive soul, wouldn't you say?....Say yes."
"You just hit a small animal. Again."
"You almost had a friend and you went and lost his frisbee. Good luck sleepin tonight."
"I rarely take a picture of my poop, but..."
Reply: "I'm gonna stop ya right there."
"I don't make the rules. I just exhort them."
"I didn't realize my wife had that kind of power. Just a second while I see if she'll authorize me to come over there and kick your ass."
"Security's too tight, dude. You can't just walk around carrying a bucket of fuel."
"Nope. Stickin with butt crust."
"I felt a breeze and maybe some toe hair."
"I'll whip this thing around and pee on you. Don't think I won't."
"Even I realize that's wrong and I have an extremely low standard of socially acceptable behavior."
"Start calling me Big Country...especially out in public."
"It looks like I've got a hickey."
Reply: "Considering what you're wearing, no one would be surprised."
"I'm sorry, as funny as it may be, I draw the line at blogging about the dead guy."
That last quote was obviously said by me. I threw that one in to prove that I do have a line I won't cross. Considering my farting dogs, inserted yogurt, accidental jello-induced inebriation and vibrating underwear, I know some of you had your doubts.
On that note; stay tuned for blog coverage of my husband's first prostate exam. Be excited.