"You mean it's not over YET?" Zumba continues

I tried to arrange a Pot Luck for this, our final Zumba class, but for some reason, not everyone was on board so, to compromise, I brought along a 10.8 ounce bag of Hershey Kisses to commemorate our time together and celebrate that it was FINALLY over. "But Amy," Felicia huffed in exasperation, trying to slap my snack from my hands, "it isn't over. There's one more class on Monday." I looked at her in horror. "Who does Zumba on a Monday?" I asked incredulously. My friend Traci also chose this time to tell me that they'd decided to offer a second session after the holiday break. "I'm going to snap you like a twig," I snarled at her. She laughed, flexing her tightly-tones muscles at me, "You'd have to catch me first!"

Despite my best efforts, I have somehow managed to become a part of this sick group of exercisers. And I hate to admit it, but my efforts are beginning to pay off. For instance, I'm down from a 20 ounce Pepsi to a 16 ounce Pepsi. And the other day...I only ate half of my Cosmic Brownie during class! And (I don't want to brag), I've managed to make myself somewhat indispensable. When one of our members felt a little shaky, I generously sacrificed my own class-time to walk her back to her room and watched her eat a peanut butter sandwich. And yesterday, I unfortunately ended up missing all of the after-class clean-up time searching for a custodian to ask if we really had to clean up (The answer was "yes."). I'm a helper. It's just who I am.

"Does anyone need a towel?" Felicia asked, mid-class. I looked around surreptitiously to see if anyone had wet themselves. I know that I've worried, once or twice, about that happening to me as I was bouncing across the room. "To mop up sweat puddles," Erin interpreted for me, noticing my confusion, "But you don't sweat, Sweetheart, you shine."

Felicia introduced some new moves. I groaned. I had just mastered the Kick the Dog Poo Off Your Shoe maneuver last week. Turns out that Turning a Lightbulb isn't as easy as it sounds. My friend Amy kept counting off for me and pointing out which direction I should go. As I was pulsating, Erin asked if I was kegeling. I gasped. "We don't know each other well enough for you to ask me that," I told her. While on the floor (pretending to be) doing pelvic thrusts, I was astonished with how high Erin's hips were...it was reminiscent of one of those exorcism movies...like there was a string tied to her bellybutton lifting her toward the ceiling.  Erin glanced at me. "Amy, you actually have to raise your ass UP," she told me. Oh.

Finally...class was over. Three of us had worn the same shirt so we held an impromptu photo-shoot. It was then that I noticed that the lettering on our shirts was positioned...let's say...differently. Felicia's words rested much higher on her shirt than mine. I frowned. "Your shirt is bigger than mine," I complained. "But your's look great," she reassured me. She was being kind but it was time to face facts. My shirt had some thirty years on her shirt. But then I realized...philosophically...it's not the size or gravitational pull of your shirt that matters...it's what you do with your shirt that counts.

When my phone is left unattended.