LIFE IN THE FAST LANE — Humor Column

DIRTY DANCING WITHOUT A DATE

Author/Editor, Carol McClain Craver
Nine out of ten doctors will tell you driving cars and reading computer screens will not tone your muscles or trim your tummy. “Exercise and eat right!” is what my doctor yelled, “and stay away from those after meal drinks.” Fine. You don’t have to get excited. As outrageous as it sounds, I gave it a try.
I love to dance, so I thought Zumba would be the way to go. “Get some jazzy exercise and look nineteen again,” I said as I smiled at myself in the mirror and laced up my hot pink sneakers.

I grabbed a sweat towel that said, Abandon Ship, and I was ready for the first night of class. The gym was full. We made four lines. I got in the front, because, hey, I’ll be good at this. Lights went down, disco lights came on. Music blasted, and women, men, and children, in perfect step and time, all threw out their arms, shook their backsides at each other, and proceeded to dance like apes.

Heads to the ground, shake, shake, shake. Turn around, belly dance, belly dance, hump, kick. Who taught these people to do this? Had I accidentally signed up for Dirty Dancing 101?

I sashayed myself to the back where tiny old people who own no workout clothes wandered to the beat of their own drums. I lasted 40 minutes but couldn’t go the full hour. I did learn the queen’s wave as I strutted to the side and back again.

Now, my feet weigh 10 pounds each and it hurts to laugh. Zumba. Yeah. Maybe I’ll change doctors, or buy some tap shoes.

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