Maybe I could avoid it.
But no. There is no hiding from the uncompromising glare of the group email. I remained steadfastly silent but, sure enough, my name was bandied about like a beach ball at a country music concert. Exposed and vulnerable, I was unceremoniously signed up without my consent. It was as if I were being groped on a Greyhound as it barreled down the freeway. I tried to defend myself the only way I knew how: Grammatically.
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EXCERPT FROM GROUP TEXT:
Amy M (Not me): Amy M's are in!
Erin: Yes, Amy's M's! I'm in.
Amy Mosiman: "Amy M's" is a singular contraction...NOT plural, Erin!
Erin: The verb agreement states are, not is. That's plural, Amy!
Dang.
EXCERPT FROM GROUP TEXT OVER
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And if that wasn't bad enough, when Felicia arrived to collect the nominal Zumba fee, I had to hand over my Girl Scout cookie money. I have never felt so victimized.
Well...until I actually got to Zumba. First of all, there was no warm, welcoming speech gently introducing us to the wonders of Zumba. Instead, Felicia launched us immediately into a frenzied pace suitable only for the Solid Gold Dancers. Remember them? Weren't they fabulous? I was already feeling light-headed when Felicia cued up The Police. At this point, everything gets a bit blurry. Every time Sting growled out Roxanne's name, we were supposed to touch the ground. Turns out, he says her name a LOT. By mid-song, my friend Erica had had it with Roxanne. "That whore," she muttered, bitch-slapping the floor.
Erin took pity on us by scrambling up like a little monkey to open the windows. I was kind enough to spot her ("Spot? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Erin asked, as she filed a restraining order against me.). In hindsight, I think she had some insider information...knowing what would soon be in store for us.
"Sangria Wine" was next. Graciously responding to great public demand, I was moved to the front to inspire the group. I writhed about accordingly. My thighs shook as I pulsated in place. Taking note of my palm raised heavenward, Erica smiled warmly. "I see you were thanking the Lord while you were up there," she said after I gratefully returned to my spot next to her. "That wasn't gratitude," I told her, aching all over, "that was supplication."
And that was BEFORE the burpees. I was confused. Aren't burpees just a cute name for oral gas? You know, when you're out to eat with a cute fella and the carbonation gets away from you so you giggle, your adorably high pony tail bobbing, and charmingly say, "Ooopsie! I had a little burpee!" But no. This wasn't THAT. I should have known. Rachel ran away like a rat from a sweaty, er, I mean sinking ship. The front row (aka The people we dream of smothering in their sleep) had more than just a spring in their step...they were a bunch of bouncing bionic bunnies. Meanwhile, the sloths in the second row were slugging it out...opting to "modify" their moves to make it more manageable for mere mortals.
With her impeccable sense of timing, Felicia decided it was now time for her introductory speech where she thanked us for sharing her love of Zumba. I looked around, confused. I, for one, was not here because of a shared love of Zumba. I had been hood-winked and bamboozled, misappropriated and maligned, my cookie money...kidnapped. I'd had enough. "I have to go," I announced, heading for the door. "But where are you going?" a plaintive voice asked, probably hoping that I'd invite her along. I paused dramatically (Is there any OTHER way to pause?). "I'm going to a better place," I told my friends, "a place that does not burden me with unrealistic expectations. A place of warmth and welcome. A place that just wants me to be happy." I swept dramatically out the door. "But where is she going?" the voice asked again. Rachel sighed. "She's renewing her license at the DMV."
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