Zumba, Zumba

You know, I really ought to finally give up on my dream to be a surprise breakout dancer.

I never learn from past fails, because time goes by and I forget all about when I was drunk dancing and thought I was the sexiest, smoothest dancer on the dance floor, but then I see the video one of my asshole friends took and I just look like a meth head really enjoying some fresh meth*.

THEN, I see a movie, like The Greatest Showman, and BAM! I’m determined to be the next America’s Got Talent breakout star.

I’d totally be a viable contender on Dancing With the Stars, too, except:

I’m not a star.

I have as much rhythm as a flag pole.

My body is entirely incapable of quick movements.

Well, since I have dance-shame amnesia, I took a Zumba class with a friend on Sunday. The only saving grace this time was that said friend is just as coordinated as I am.

Not surprisingly, we claimed a spot in the back corner, behind some old mats and a mop bucket. Absolutely not in front of the mirror and definitely not where anyone else could see us.

The class started out promisingly well, because they turned the lights off and added some strobe effects. Even better to disguise ourselves.

As soon as the music came on, the instructor busted out moves straight from a Shakira/Rihanna/J. Lo/Zendaya collaboration music video, choreographed by the dance gods.

Uhhhhh.

Back when I first did Zumba in Elko, the instructor would teach us the steps. I think she figured we were all inept, or maybe Zumba used to be more about actually learning a few moves versus trying to mimic a professional dancer with our strange, not-even-close movements.

Honestly, I think Zumba is now all about the instructors really feeling themselves and not caring that the fat chick in the back is 20 steps behind and looks exactly like Tina Belcher from Bob’s Burgers.

My friend and I just looked at each other and laughed, like, “NOPE!”

We tried (for awhile). We really did, but my hips do lie and they are never going to be mistaken for the hips of a gay Latin Zumba instructor.

During one of the songs, the group shifted so that half of the room faced the other half. Pretty quickly, I realized that we were taking part in a dance off.

Oh, hell no. Nope. NERP.

Not only did we have to engage in a dance off, the instructor started pointing at people, which meant, “OK, now let’s ALL look at this ONE person while they do a made up move they they come up with RIGHT ON THE FUCKING SPOT.”

I almost hyperventilated and fainted from fright right there.

For self-preservation purposes, I stood right behind a woman who looked like she knew what she was doing. I was literally on her heels and mimicking her every move so as not to be seen. I’m fairly certain a bead of her sweat flew straight into my eye, but it was worth it to not be called out.

Eventually, the asshole instructor was done giving the inept people cardiac arrest and the *dancers* moved back to their original spots.

That’s when I noticed him.

Now, I must preface what I’m about to say with the urging that I’m not making fun of this person. I’m really not. He just looked like the opposite of someone who would be at Zumba on a Sunday. This just goes to show that even when you look like you’d be the absolute worst twerker, you can really surprise people with your expert booty popping.

So, this awesome guy…he had curly, but thin-on-top hair and coke bottle glasses (on purpose). He was chubby, but it looked really good on him. He had on one of those “Straight Outta…” shirts.

I really wanted it to say “Straight Outta Nachos”, but when I finally got a good look, it said “Straight Outta Rehearsal”. That’s not even half as awesome.

He also could move his body in the most amazing way. I was jealous and felt instantly self-conscious. He was truly glorious and I was just a sack of potatoes rolling down a steep staircase.

I think what this all boils down to is that when you’ve got it, you’ve got it. When you don’t, it’s time to quit embarrassing yourself at Zumba.

*I have no clue what being on meth is called. Is it a trip? A high? Help me out, people.

The following are some really blurry stills from a video taken during the wine walk. We were dancing in a cage, if that’s not immediately obvious. It was the direct opposite of talented or sexy. In fact, we’re only allowed back if we promise not to drunk dance ever again.

Sweet Moves, Yo

Tomorrow I am planning on attending a workout Burlesque dance class with a friend. I simply cannot wait to see how much material I can get for my blog. I am about as talented dance-wise as your bald, middle-aged uncle, who thinks he has moves (he also still thinks his cellphone belt clip is what the cool kids have). If I wanted to, I could make a video of my dancing, upload it onto YouTube and, easily, I could be the next William Hung. I am BAD. BAD.

Why am I doing this then? Well, I would actually like to find my sexy. I know it is in there. It’s just hiding under my insecurity, my spastic muscles, and my inability to find anything resembling a rhythm. If I try hard enough, learn to count and move at the same time, and allow my body to move to the beat, it is possible that someday I will not look like I am having a seizure when I am attempting to dance. Maybe.

In honor of this dance class tomorrow, I am re-posting a piece I did on my blog I began while living in BFE Elko. I took a Zumba class and the result was pure hilarity.

I am such a masochist. I am also a really horrible dancer. Yes, I tried Zumba for the second time, despite the fact that I can’t dance for anything.  I actually stepped on my own two left feet. Let me try to express to the fullest of my ability how bad I am at moving my body in an even remotely sexy manner…

First, I thought that the people I was going with were amateurs, like me. WRONG. One girl minored in dance in college. She looked better than the instructor. Now I know why she wanted to be in the front! What was I thinking agreeing to that?! Seeing myself front and center next to JLO did nothing for my self esteem. Then, to my right, another dancer who was counting the steps. Counting the what? You mean there are steps in dancing? And you have to count them? Behind me, a friend who was not afraid to let out her sexy wild woman self and let me tell you, she was truly shaking it. Me? I was stiff as a board and I had as much rhythm as an albatross. I looked like I was having a stroke at one point. It was bad, really bad. There was this move where you had to bend your knees and jump forward, sexily…LORD. Probably the worst move involved shaking our asses as we bent forward. I felt like I should apologize to the person behind me. My ass didn’t stop shaking for an hour after class.

Besides being surrounded by supposed “amateurs”, again, thanks guys… I was also surrounded by mirrors. As I mentioned above, I was persuaded to stand front and center, in front of the mirror. It would have been half alright if I didn’t have to be reminded every second how truly awful I was. I had to WATCH myself. It was truly nightmarish. At one point I decided it would be best to just laugh instead of maintain my determined face; that way no one would think I was actually serious with my ridiculous moves.

Next, dancing is EXHAUSTING, folks! What the hell? I understand now why all those club addicts are so skinny. Oh, and why Britney Spears has thighs the size of my big head.  I was in agony. My thighs and calves were burning and my knees wanted to give in. I was dripping sweat and just looked a mess. I made the mistake to look over at “Miss Minored in Dance” and she was glistening beautifully with sweat. Grrr.  I was so exhausted that I soon couldn’t do two things at once. Move my arms and legs? At the same time? Forget it…

HOWEVER, and this is a big however (notice how it is capitalized), I actually enjoyed myself and got a hell of a workout. I looked physically challenged, yes, but there were others similar to me (none quite as bad, but close). The third (most recent) time I attended I went with a friend who was more like me and we laughed and laughed and laughed at each other. My abs got a good workout as well as my growing thighs.

So, if you attend the Zumba class Fridays, in Elko, I apologize in advance. My spastic ass will be in attendance and my advice to you is to try not to look too much. I think I am getting better…