At least they were. Then I went to Zumba.
In case you're wondering, this is not me.
The problem with taking an aerobics class, or a dance class, or any class that requires that you be surrounded on four walls by mirrors, is that you are surrounded on four walls by mirrors. This is done, of course, so you can observe first hand your public humiliation without having to read the witness reports on Twitter. ("Giant yellow t-shirt chick hiding a VW in her bike shorts." *tweet*)
That lady in the yellow tee shirt? Also not me. She's quite fit and coordinated-looking by comparison.
I only put this in because, well, she's wearing a yellow tee-shirt. And she has dark hair. In a little ponytail.
But she's standing erect, and to all appearances hasn't maimed anyone on her row. So, clearly. Not me.
Now, as long as we're learning, I gotta tell you, I'm one hot tamale on the dance floor. My hair is long and lush, my tush completely under control, my -- and this one is important for we over-40 types -- chestal region is a good nine inches above my belly button, shields at 87% and holding. And dang! You should see me Cha-Cha! Just for good measure, I do a little 'dig' to show those wannabees in the back what an investment in personal fitness can do for your calves, and then toss in a shimmy to show there are no hard feelings. "Look!" my fluttery shoulders and perky collar bones seem to say. "We're all just here to have fun! Am I right? Cha-cha-cha!"
Then it's time to add music.
Briefly, "I" disappear from the mirror to crank up Michael Bublé, and am temporarily replaced by this giant yellow blob sporting a teensy ponytail and gym shoes she wore to paint the garage. "Yikes," one of the less astute voices in my head mutters. "Check out Mrs. Lemon Head! Sure glad we ain't her!"
Michael starts crooning about marimba music, and with one last pitying look at the middle-aged warning against matching your clothes to citrus fruits, my attention returns to 'me,' enthusiastically shaking and shimmying and shouting latin dance instructions in an Irish accent.
The trouble starts when I begin to figure out the routine. In my pre-blob days, I was actually a pretty good dancer; I've even been known to throw down a little Merengue when the wait for a table at Red Iguana goes too long.
So I learn the drill pretty quickly. And of course, once that happens, there's no reason to keep watching the instructor, right? Right?
Let this be a warning to anyone over the age of 29 who has ever been pregnant, breast fed an infant, or lived consistently on planet earth without taking the necessary precautions against the effects of gravity, by which I mean filling your lingerie with daily doses of helium: Under no circumstances should you ever, ever, ever take your eyes off the instructor when you are in a beginning Zumba class. Believe me, girls, you do NOT want to know what is going on in your personal corner of the mirror. Stuff is moving around in directions the instructor never imagined. When she says, "Take it left!" you'll discover that a full third of your body has already been there and is on its way back, handing out postcards and complaining about the waiters. The risk of bumping into someone else is nothing compared with the likelihood you'll collide with yourself.
At one point, Kim handed out these jangly hip shawl things and announced we'd be doing some belly dancing. This was news to me; at least one of us had been belly dancing since she waltzed through the door in her big yellow tee shirt. There weren't enough shawls for everyone, especially after I took six of them and tied them together. (Look, it was that or wear a single one as a bandanna.)
By now you should have figured out, this is also not, in any possible way, shape, or form, me.
So, needless to say, I'm rethinking the whole "New Year's Resolution" thing. I hadn't realized how much pain and suffering my efforts to change could cause others. Maybe I'll follow the lead of so many other bloggers who, instead of setting specific goals, are choosing a word of the year. I already know what mine will be: