Getting on my feet is no small feat

Faced with the record-breaking heat of the day, I decided to forego Zumba and instead make chocolate pudding. Working up the courage to cancel my session, Felicia responded by saying, "We could do it tonight instead!" "There's a heat advisory," I typed back, frightened, "No!"

My last Zumba session underscored my deep-seated belief that I was destined to be dumpy. As Felicia scampered about like a fawn, weightless and wonderful, scarcely moving the dust on her driveway, I was frantically clomping along, digging a ditch. My physical trainer graciously permitted me a brief break in between sets and, after I doused myself in ice water and felt confident enough to take off the oxygen mask, I showed her the clear evidence of our differing exercise styles. "You have scarcely stirred up even a smidgen of a dust cloud," I told her, before pointing out the trench that could be mistaken for a quickly created grave. With a dismissive flick of her sleek, dark ponytail, she objected. "This only demonstrates your energy and enthusiasm."

She had just cued up the next set when she interrupted it abruptly. "Grapevine," she stressed. I looked about hopefully. Grapes sounded delightfully refreshing! "No...Amy...your feet...you know how to grapevine."

I was baffled. "I do?"

She huffed.

"It's line-dancing, Amy. You know how to line-dance."

Now I was really confused. "Why would you think I know how to line-dance?" I harkened back to my younger years when I was kicked out of ballet as a child.

"Well...you..." Felicia gestured at me from frown-to-ground, "Oh, never mind."

So as not to discourage her further, I decided to brighten her day with some inspiring news. "I have a goal." She was understandably both shocked, doubtful, and delighted. "A goal?!?" she squealed, clapping happily like I was going to share the Snickers Bar I had stowed away in my truck for the ride home, "What is it?" Oh no. What had I just done? I wasn't quick enough to come up with a reasonable goal (like drinking more water...yuck or gasp, bettering monitoring my snack consumption) so I was stuck. "Before summer is over," I told her, now feeling stupid, "is to be able to stand up from a seated position on the floor without needing the assistance of five to seven 4th graders." She regarded me solemnly, deliberating the seriousness of my goal. "What have you been doing so far to reach your goal?" she inquired. I proudly demonstrated how I firmly grasp a stable object to lower myself back onto my haunches before summoning all the shivering strength of my legs and quivering core to sort of right myself. "I do three of those a day!" I announced.

She grimaced (or maybe the sun was in her eyes). "How long have you been doing this?" she queried.

"One day," I answered.

"Good," she said, "We can stop you from doing irreparable damage."

NOTE-TO-SELF: Exercising causes irreparable damage. Stop doing it immediately.

Apparently but not surprisingly, I was doing EVERYTHING wrong. My heels were supposed to be FLAT on the ground (only if you nail them down, Felicia). My knees were supposed to hover OVER my feet (How am I ever supposed to know? My tummy is in the way!). My stance needs to be wider and my feet should be parallel ("This isn't geometry, Felicia!" I snapped.). Our Zumba lesson was moved indoors to a spacious living room. Felicia wanted to better assess my standing up process. Oh boy.

Step One:  Sit on the floor following your long-established ritual of endlessly circling like a dog bedding down for the night, then softly tap your feet rapidly like a kitten on a hot asphalt driveway before slowly collapsing in on yourself like an imploding building. There.

Felicia was speechless. I think I eventually heard her murmur, "We'll work on that later."

We sat there for a moment before Felicia said, "Are you going to stand up?"

Now? Usually there is about a ten minute hiatus between the sitting down and standing up process.

Step Two: I flopped over to my knees, lowering my neck while arching my back like an angry cat. Carefully, I drew one foot beneath me like a car jack while straining up using my shaking T-Rex arms. Optimistically, I toss the other foot like a horseshoe, hoping it'll land in close proximity to the other one. Then I slowly ratchet myself up.

Felicia was stunned. I understood. My friend Geri recently blew out her shoulder but still manages to gracefully lower herself by the pool edge to dangle her feet in the water before effortlessly rising, cumbersome sling and all, from her perch like a majestic swan. I more resemble a triceratops tanking in the tar pits.

"Do it again," my trainer told me as I tried to control my breathing from the extraneous exertion of standing up off the floor.

Not in a million lifetimes, I thought to myself.

Step Three: Watch as a list of reasonable exercises is written for you.

This I could handle. I am a seasoned veteran of ignoring lists...especially lists including physical activities.


List in hand, I thanked my physical trainer for her valuable time and expertise before crawling into my truck and unwrapping my Snickers Bar before I had even left her driveway. I contemplating never returning to Zumba despite the fact that I had bullied Felicia into helping me. By the time I'd reached my own house, though, I had an idea. With chocolate-coated fingers, I excitedly texted Felicia.

"Would you be willing to host Zumba-RITA? It would be 30 minutes of exercise followed by a dip in the pool and fun drinks!"

No answer.

A day later, our place of employment shared training videos to watch at our leisure.

I texted Felicia again.

"We could add a Watching Party with games to our Zumba-RITA event!"

No answer. Hmmm...

A day or so later, I tried again.

"I designed a logo for us!"

Nope.

Huh! Maybe...just like me...my dreams for Zumba-RITA weren't going to be able to get off the ground.