Tonight was the last of my Zumba classes. For the rest of the class, that is. I had my last dance six weeks ago. I contemplated showing up for the final class, you know, just to show I am not a total quitter. But then I got sidetracked by my teriyaki chicken dinner, and my son's leftover Hallowe'en candy of mini Butterfinger and Coffee Crisp bars. I don't know why I signed up for that class, because I know for certain that I am not a dancer. After the third class, my husband asked if I was learning new steps each week, or if they just did the sames ones each time. I had no idea. The next week I asked this question of my instructor, in front of another class participant who had a little chuckle over it. Yes, every class had exactly the same steps to exactly the same songs in exactly the same order. Hmmm. Even stupid old Lloyd woulda done better than me. Dancing is sooooo confusing! The instructor faces us, so I wasn't sure if I was supposed to mirror her or go the opposite way. I tried to follow the others, but the women in front were too fast and the women in back were almost as bad as I was. Actually, not nearly as bad, but really, really bad nonetheless. You have to do things with your arms and hips and legs at the SAME TIME! I ended up marching on the spot while performing ill-timed arm flails. On the bright side, I never hurt anybody (except myself - oooooh my lower back and right hip). I don't know if they will ever forgive me.
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