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!
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