Zumba: I made it through November (kind of)

It's been rough-going...on the Zumba-front. Three weeks ago, I ran away from Zumba when class was temporarily moved to the typically highly-trafficked, surrounded by GINORMOUS windows, high school gym lobby. Yes...I am a strong, confident woman...unashamed... bold...unapologetic...courageous. A role model for the out-of-shape and out-of-breath. Ugh..no, I'm NOT. Beneath this self-assured exterior beats the erratically-uneven heartbeat of a self-conscious, insecure scaredy-cat. Afraid to try anything new. Afraid of looking stupid in an environment outside of my control. So...yeah. I ran. Well...slunk is a better word as Felicia is obviously faster than me and would have caught me if I hadn't been in stealth-mode.

Two weeks ago, I was ready to get back on the Zumba horse. I assured EVERYONE that I was going until..."What's the matter?" my friend Rachel asked, walking into my classroom as I sat there looking both horrified and dejected. "I forgot my zombie pants!" I wailed, "And everyone will think I did it on purpose!" After calmly inventorying the rest of my "zombie" (Freudian slip? I think not!) clothes and deeming them satisfactory, Rachel decided that working out in khakis wouldn't cause permanent damage (except to my ever-floundering self-esteem).  "I'll wear my work pants too," she declared in solidarity. One of God's own angels. Felicia rewarded my perseverance by playing "Funky Town."

And now to this week. First, I got a cramp wrestling into my zombie pants. That, AFTER cracking a nail trying to inchworm the reluctant fabric up my stodgy legs. We (the class) diagnosed my curious inability to perform cross-over moves (right elbow/left knee, ect) and I was besieged with LOTS of suggestions including scheduling OT sessions and color-coding my body parts. It was also noticed that I am unable to sit down on the floor without circling several times like a bear bedding down for the winter. And speaking of cramps AND being down on the floor, I cramped up painfully performing non-sexual pelvic thrusts (I didn't even know non-sexual pelvic thrusts EXISTED!). Frightened, Erin sprang up to respond to my injured cry...fearing the cause might be heart-related. It kind of was. I wanted...with all my heart...to be done with Zumba. "You need to drink water," she hissed, casting a scornful gaze at my Pepsi...shining like a waiting beacon on the window sill.

I also developed a helpful mantra to accompany repetitive (and, again, pain-inducing) motions: "I...hate...Felicia..." I chugged like the little engine that would like to run over my tied-to-the-rails fitness instructor. "Don't breathe in through your mouth," she yelled, casually popping her gum as she performed an impossible-to-copy tap dance maneuver. I gasped. I couldn't NOT not breathe through my mouth. I was like a single-yoked ox hitched to a Conestoga wagon struggling up a washed-out path in the Rocky Mountains, trying to get those darn settlers to Oregon. "She couldn't have left the pellet stove and China cabinet back East?" I breathed in disgust...through my mouth. I switched to Lamaze: Hee Hee Hoo-oo but it threw off the rhythm of those around me. My friends in the back, Lauren and Amy, tried to point helpfully and cadence out the steps (front /front/back/back/hop) but, at this point, I was a lost cause.

Later,as I sat on the floor, legs spread, I noticed a phenomenon that I could only describe as "trampoline crotch." I wiggled over to my friend Traci, facing her, foot-to-foot (She graciously adjusted her stretched-out width to accommodate my limitations...initially, she resembled a 180 degree angle. Our conversation took place at a more-reasonable 45 degrees). "Am I doing something wrong..." I began. "Yes," she said immediately. I frowned. "I wasn't done yet," I told her. I gestured to the stretch of fabric creating an unnatural land bridge from thigh-to-thigh. "You could bounce a quarter off of this," I said. Boing! Boing!  "What is it with you and sound effects?" she asked, before reassuring me that everyone suffers from trampoline crotch (Copywrite amymosiman2019). Felicia glared at me through the mirror as the woman surrounding me were experimentally boing boing-ing their own zombie pants. "It's not that kind of class, Amy," she scolded.

Good news: My zombie shirt selection has run its course which means I can finally STOP going to class!

The Ruling Stands: Amy- 1, Erin- 0

It was my extensive knowledge of the rules pertaining to baseball that essentially saved me. I was leading my line of loyal 4th graders down the hall from lunch when we reached "The Intersection." My kids innately know that, if my friend Erin is in the right-hand corridor with her troop of teeny-boppers, we immediately divert left. And there she was. Stealthily, on tip-toe, we tried to get past undetected. But Erin's "Amy-radar" is a fine-tuned mechanism. She called out to me...and like Lot's wife, I turned. My bubbly buddy blew me a kiss.

It was an automated response...I swear. Like swatting away a fly. Or scraping poo from your shoe. My hand lifted to my lips and my 4th graders gasped in horror while Erin lit up, ready to be on the receiving end of a loving gesture. "It doesn't count," I declared, dropping my hand dismissively, "the act of blowing a kiss is ruled incomplete. Checked." Erin stomped over and immediately began arguing against the ruling. I commiserated but assured her that there was no appeal for the checked blowing-a-kiss rule. Unable to admit defeat, Erin sought out council from a committee of our peers. Re-enactments were presented. Clarifying questions were addressed. It all seemed to hinge on one key inquiry: Were the lips...at any time...pursed? We reviewed the film. Everyone agreed that it was a tough call but, in the end, justice prevailed. "The ruling stands," came the unsurprising announcement, "as there was no evidence of pursed lips and there was no follow-through extension of the hand from the mouth outward, it is hereby determined that a kiss was not officially blown. I repeat. A kiss was not officially blown." Vindicated, my shoulders sagged in relief. Erin WAS NOT pleased. "I'll tell you what blows..." she muttered, "that call blows." Not one to throw in the towel, though, Erin turned to me and smiled. "Don't worry, Amy, I'll catch ya next time."

My apologies to the census taker

Sorry to break it to y'all...but I'm going to hell. What do you mean...you're not surprised?!?! I've been busy for YEARS, meticulously pasting Dollar Store gemstones onto my flimsy plastic crown.

Naturally I couldn't sleep last night...what with knowing I was doomed to the flames of eternal damnation and all...and it was then that I pieced it all together; the message that God had tried to send me but me...in my utter stupidity and selfishness...in my utter disregard for my fellow man...missed it.

So...there we were...Brad and I...reading the Bible. Specifically Numbers 26 (This part is important). Ugh. Numbers. About as fun as reading a phone book. Or, like Numbers 5, so infuriating that I was ready to toss in the Old Testament towel. Breathe, Amy, breathe...the culture was different back then...

Anyhoo...so there we are, reading the Bible ("Here's a jewel for you! And a jewel for you!" Actually, I was power-reading because Jeopardy was about to come on..."No jewel for you!"), when there came a knock on the door. We frowned. It was dark. The house was a mess. I was wearing my dachshund jammies. Brad went to answer the door while I wrestled the dogs. It was...a census taker.

Disappointed that it wasn't Publisher's Clearing House but, nonetheless. still accommodating, Brad invited Brian the Census Taker in and they began covering the important questions necessary for the proper running of our country. Sex? As often as possible. Race? Only if a bear is chasing me. As I sat on my wiggling animalsin the other room, I began to get unreasonably frustrated. How dare the government send a stranger into my home and ask questions that were easily google-able! This was an invasion of my privacy! Plus my dishes weren't done and I was wearing dachshund jammies. Oh my goodness! Was I becoming a Libertarian or was I pre-menstrual? I heard them talking about my employment and said to myself, "That's enough!"  I stuffed the dogs in the bedroom and marched into the room, sporting my dachshund jammies.

I am not proud of what happened next. In fact, I am deeply ashamed. I did not greet this stranger...Brian the Census Taker. I did not shake his hand or introduce myself. I did not warmly welcome him to my home or offer him some Kool-Aid. No. I stormed in, slammed myself down in a chair across from him, looked him straight in the eye and growled, "How much longer is this going to take?" Brad stared at me as though he'd never seen me before. I was short-tempered and antagonistic. Poor Brian. Brad looked about ready to kill me. Finally...thank God...our interview came to an end. Brad saw Brian to the door and bid him farewell. I grunted out a good-bye. The door shut and then all hell broke loose.  At the height of it...I was compared to "Bitchzilla." Whoa.

It was later...in my late night reflection...that it sunk in. The passage of the bible we were reading when there came a knocking on our door was entitled:  The Second Census. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I suddenly remembered the verse warning of just such an incident as this: Hebrews 13:2-Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. 

Oh Brian...I am so sorry.

The Scavenger Hunt: When the predator becomes the prey

While everyone is susceptible, I believe that teachers are the biggest perpetrators in the pen purloining demographic. We view a good pen like a sommelier views a good wine. One does not leave a quality pen out in the open; unprotected, like a baby antelope among the lions.

It'd not like I don't try. But, c'mon. I'm human. If you cut me...do I not bleed? If you leave a cool pen unattended...will I not feel compelled to take it for my very own? My shame during this most recent fiasco was particularly poignant as I had recently led a youth Sunday School class on the 8th Commandment. We concluded the lesson with a brief writing activity. "Which pen do you want?" I asked each student. "The one I stole from the veterinarian's office, the one I stole from my dentist, or this nifty one I took from my mechanic? Oh! And here's one I stole from the church!" I will...one day...have much to answer for.

Temptation struck on a Thursday. I waltzed into the faculty room and immediately saw a magnificent purple pen bathed in a heavenly glow...sitting alone and vulnerable on a Chromebook. "Who's purple pen is this?" I asked Tyler, who had recently made the faculty room his personal office. As his student teacher, Silas, honed his skills in the classroom, Tyler took it upon himself to make his services available for staff consultation. He leads group discussions, is on the assembly advisory committee, offers his research skills to further and enhance curriculum, and mediates minor staff skirmishes (that are usually ignited by me). "The pen belongs to Felicia," Tyler said, not blinking an eye as I swept it up and waltzed out the door. In between grading and planning life-changing lesson plans, I orchestrated a small scavenger hunt for Felicia...fun-lovin' gal that she is.

I returned to the faculty room and was peering hopefully into the fridge as I awaited the arrival of my scavenger hunt clues from the copier when Felicia arrived. "There's my Chromebook" she exclaimed. I thought I spotted a chocolate-covered strawberry in the very depths of the fridge so I leaned further in. "Wait a minute," Felicia said, her voice dropping suspiciously. "Where's my pen?" I froze, waiting for Tyler's reaction but apparently he was as frightened as me. She began a frantic search. Floor. Behind the bookcase. She grilled Tyler who remained stoic-ly strong before she stormed out. We breathed a sigh of relief. Whew! That was close.

Copies in hand...I placed my scavenger hunt clues strategically around the school before carefully taping the pen into the paw of "Buster Bear" the giant cardboard decoration that guards my classroom door during Food Drive Week. Minutes later, a furious Felicia burst into my room. "Where is it?" she shouted, advancing upon me. "Wha...wha...where's what?" I stammered, fearing for my very life. "Don't get cute with me, Amy," she growled, rummaging through the highly-confidential state-secret papers littering my desk. I cowered in the corner, shaking like a leaf. "I'll be back!" she threatened, Terminator-style, stomping out of my room. Oh my goodness...what was I thinking? Was a pen worth the risk of my life? "Maybe you should have met with me first before putting this little plan of your's into action," Tyler advised. Too bad, buddy. If I'm going down...I'm taking you with me. Silence implies consent.

Fortunately, some 3rd grade super-sleuths joined Felicia in her quest to retrieve her lost treasure and before you knew it...she was again at my door. "Was my pen taped to that stupid bear the first time I was here?" she snarled. I nodded, glancing for my phone in case I needed to make an emergency call. Felicia pointed her pen at me like a weapon. "We have Zumba today," she reminded me, "I'll make you pay for what you've done." Pen in hand, she left me there, speechless. The story over. That was all she wrote.

Zumba...What was I thinking?

"This...gasp...may not...moan...have been...groan...the best...ugh...idea...pant-pant...I've ever had," I admitted, collapsing on the bathroom floor after having wrestled my cute new Zumba clothes (mostly) into place. This was after teetering several times, crashing into the wall, and almost taking out the sink. Let's just say spandex is NOT my friend.  "Are you ready to go work-out?" Rachel asked as I emerged, worn out and defeated, from my changing room. "I think I already did," I told her, digging out a dollar fifty to plug into the Pepsi machine. "Gotta stay hydrated," I told her.

Suffering from "Flintstone Knee" as a result of the Halloween flash-mob from the day before, I limped along, staggered up the stairs, and arrived on the track only to be confronted with my worst nightmare: A group of Zumba goddesses. Stretching. Smiling. Pulling their glossy manes up into perky ponytails. Sipping their tasteless water. Did I mention the smiling? These women were sleek. Tone. I looked down at my cute Zumba clothes and realized that I looked like a canister of squishy biscuits that had exploded. I began inching toward the door.

"Amy...come over by the mirrors," lead Zumba goddess, Felicia called. Oh hell, no. As my escape had been thwarted, I wiggled into the back row, my friend Erin situated between me and those soul-crushing mirrors. Forget Harry Potter's Mirror of Erised that showed you your heart's desire. These mirrors added thirty pounds, illuminated your cellulite, and shattered your self-esteem. Unfortunately for me, Erin is so tiny that my hips and thighs unfurled behind her reflection like a sick pair of butterfly wings. "We'll be going 45-minutes," Felicia announced, to my great alarm, "with the last 15 minutes comprised of stretching." Whew...good thing I wore my watch. I secretly elected myself Keeper of the Time. "Give me a signal if you need to slow down or stop," Felicia told us. I immediately flashed her a sign. "Thanks, Amy," Felicia smiled. "If it gets bad...flash me TWO of those." Cue the music.

Word to the wise:  Zumba would be much easier if:

A.  If was done in the dark or individualized cubicles.
B.  If you knew your left from your right.
C.  If you had any rhythm AT ALL.
D.  If you were even slightly in shape.

We spent most of the first song going right and left. Felicia started pointing as going right and left turned out to be impossible for me. The song finally ended and I clapped enthusiastically. Confused...the Zumba goddesses also clapped. "Don't forget to hydrate, ladies," I encouraged, racing to my Pepsi. Back in line, the next set began where I was now asked to pop my booty.  No worries there...my booty had deflated YEARS ago. Erin assaulted me several times with her booty-poppin' so I moved away from her to what must have been the ringer in the group. "Pssst," I hissed at a woman I didn't know but who could clearly teach J-Lo to dance, "How are you doing that?" I gestured at her impressive booty poppin'. Creeped-out or complimented, I'm not sure, but either way, she'd been thrown off her booty poppin' pattern and began giggling. "Amy...get away from my mother," Felicia called. Disappointed not to be receiving individualized booty poppin' instruction, I flashed Felicia a sign and got back in line. The song ended. I clapped, checked my watch, and reminded everyone to hydrate. Felicia meandered over. "Amy," she told me helpfully, "It isn't required to clap after every song." I thanked her for the tip. Everyone was congratulating one another on their stellar Zumba-ing. Not wanting to be left out, I tried reminiscing with my friend Dee to legitimize my presence here among these exercising experts. "Remember when we were in that marathon together?" I asked her. Everyone fell silent. They'd witnessed my abilities...a marathon? Dee's eyes widened. Honest-to-the-core, she would not condone my pulling her into an imaginary memory. "Remember..." I insisted, "I held your keys?" She laughed. "That's right," she said, "You did a great job!"

Felicia herded us back into place. Yes...I used "herd" for a reason. I felt like the lone cow amongst a pasture of thoroughbred fillies. And not even a dairy cow. A beefer. As Keeper of the Time, I helpfully informed Felicia that it was time to stretch. "Not yet, Amy," she answered, "We have one more set." I glanced longingly at my Pepsi. "Does anyone know how to waffle?" Felicia asked. I nodded eagerly. "I know how to make waffles," I shared happily. Now THIS was exercising! "Not waffle, Amy. Wobble. It's a move." I nodded again. This couldn't be too bad. I've wobbled my whole life. Turns out what Felicia calls wobbling, I call reeling in the fish. Wheee! This was fun! Oops. No. I wobbled over-zealously and an hour later would not be able to move my shoulders. I didn't know I had muscles in my shoulders! The song ended. I clapped. We stretched. Felicia contorted her body into some sort of twisted puzzle piece that I was supposed to emulate. I hyperventilated, laughing at the idea of even being able to get up off the floor without a hoist. I glanced at my watch (Alright...I admit it...I had NEVER stopped staring at it!), "Time!" I announced! I grabbed my Pepsi and was GONE. "Do you think she'll come back to the next session?" someone asked Rachel, following my quick exit. "Absolutely," Rachel answered with conviction. "How do you know?" Rachel grinned, "She bought TWO Zumba shirts."