15 Thoughts We’ve All Had While Attending A Zumba Class
Zumba is among the many methods that claim its tactics take the “work” out of working out. Like many, I was lured into the fantasy of transforming my average physique into that of a Brazilian Victoria’s Secret model by simply dancing, but I soon realized that all of that calorie-burning came in the form of shame. As my moves mimicked convulsions, I could feel my self-worth dripping off of my untoned body along with any shred of humility I had left. Is the emotional rollercoaster of questioning your coordination part of the calorie-burning experience? Who needs lypo when you’ve got humiliation?
Here are 15 thoughts we’ve all had while attending Zumba classes for the first time.
- Is this a flash mob? I mean, just three seconds ago we were sitting around discussing crockpot dinners and carbs, and now everyone is suddenly dancing in harmonious perfection. Is this rehearsal for a Taylor Swift video? Are we in the squad now?!
- I hope no one is recording this. Speaking of public humiliation—hopefully anyone recording this will do me the justice of blurring my face. Otherwise, I’ll have to relocate to a country that strictly forbids dancing, so as to prevent bringing additional shame upon my family.
- Will my insurance cover dance-related injuries? There is the distinct possibility of hip and/or ankle fractures while nailing Brazilian dance moves. Is there a billing code for “tibia fracture as the result of Salsa dancing?”
- Is this really going to make me look like Gisele? The brochure displayed a picture of a smoking hot supermodel having the time of her life while happily dancing, so I’m led to believe that I’ll acquire such hotness and enthusiasm by participating in this debauchery.
- Shakira’s pelvis must be double-jointed. Her hips are lying about something. I don’t know what it is, but normal human anatomy cannot possibly accommodate both of her hips moving in opposite directions simultaneously. She should be studied.
- Am I really paying for this emotional torture? I came in here feeling like an “8” but have since demoted my self-worth to that of an emotional eater buried face deep into a bottomless pit of Ben & Jerry’s due to the out-of-pocket expenses that have led to this sort of graphic humiliation.
- Where did everyone find their fancy workout attire? It’s like everyone in here is sponsored by Spandex. Meanwhile, back in Frumpville, I’m rocking my grandpa’s XL tee shirt to hide my burgeoning muffin top.
- I feel like I’ve got the coordination of a newborn giraffe. Never has my coordination come into question before attending this class, but it obviously needs nurturing.
- We’re only five minutes in? Five minutes in and my calves are cramping, my heart is beating inside my ears, and my lung capacity is leaving much to be desired. After this experience I have a new mantra in life: if you can survive the first five minutes of Zumba, you can survive anything.
- Would anyone notice if I snuck out the back? I could just twist and hop my way towards the back of the room while everyone else is ogling their dance skills in the wall-length mirrors that surround the room. No one would ever even see me (except, yes, everyone actually would since the room is encased in mirrors).
- Does everyone else actually know what they’re doing? These people seem to have this genre of dance moves mastered. Am I the only one that feels like she’s learning to speak a new language by using her noodle-esque body only?
- I’m going to die. This is the end. Spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical doom are imminent. Please play Beyonce’s music at my funeral.
- Thank God it’s over. I’m going to include “the end of Zumba class” in the daily counting of my blessings from here on out—right after I clean the puddle of what’s left of me off the floor and do the walk of shame out of here.
- Never again. The hangover of what happened inside that dance studio will haunt me for the rest of my shameful life.
- Is it too early to start drinking wine? Hydration is key, and temporarily numbing the image of me gyrating in an oversized tee shirt in front of a room full of ridiculously fit women is the pot of gold at the end of a seriously sickening rainbow.