Fluffy Girl Does Dance Class

By Melinda VanLone | Thoughts

Jun 19

I realized this weekend that I’ve been working so diligently on revisions for my novel that I hadn’t stepped foot outside the apartment in over two weeks. That’s right. Two weeks. In this chair. Not great for the bottom line.

Time to kick my bottom line out of the house and get to the gym. I used to love classes. Yoga, Dance Aerobics, a funky little class called On The Ball, Step Aerobics, Kick Boxing… you name it, I was there. I was a class junkie.

Not that you could tell from my mid-section, but still.

I left for the gym with a sense of pride and excitement. Today begins a whole new me. I will get in shape. I will go to classes every day. I will have a good time. Yay, me!

The classroom is encased in glass. We were on display for the rest of the people working out, like donuts in a donut shop. It’s hard to hide in a room made of glass. I chose a spot in the corner near the door, just in case I needed to make a quick escape get some water. A girl came in with a microphone and an “I’m in charge” attitude. She was five or six months pregnant, with a long, curly ponytail and a sunny disposition. She welcomed us to class, and then turned on the music.

I’m pretty sure they could hear that music in the next county.

Then she said something, I have no idea what because I’d bust an eardrum. Someone yelled something unintelligible in response, and every woman in the class began to gyrate. Hips swayed and jiggled, breasts thrust out, hands pumped, feet stepped quickly to left, right, front, and back. Except mine. My feet did some sort of jig all on their own while my hands traveled entirely different directions and my hips… didn’t.

The entire room swayed to a rhythm I didn’t understand. Instructions were shouted, but I couldn’t hear them. I lost sight of our leader somewhere in the hoard of women. I looked around for the “maximum occupancy” sign because I have a feeling we were in violation and I might need to leave for safety reasons.

Since I couldn’t see our leader, I tried to follow the woman in front of me. She was an obvious pro planted there for the purpose of making the rest of us feel bad, much like I’m sure they pay professional singers to hang out at karaoke bars. I then tried to follow the fluffy girl next to me, thinking we’d be kindred spirits, but obviously she was a dancer in her former life.

When I started the class, I was on the back row. After two songs, I had two rows of people behind me, and two next to me who blocked my easy exit. I’m not sure when or how they got there, but it was disconcerting to turn around and find I’d been jiggling my derrière in another woman’s face. She looked as lost and confused as I was.

At this point, the first one bailed out. That “what the hell am I doing in here” expression as she walked toward the exit was priceless. I felt a moment of pride as I realized I would not be the first to leave. I watched as she pushed her way through a gaggle of men hanging out in the hallway outside class. Apparently our latin dance moves were exciting entertainment for those of the male persuasion.

Just when I thought I had my body coordinated, the next song came on, and brought an entirely new set of steps. As I tried to force my feet to move in the directions indicated, the direction switched and suddenly the entire group moved toward me with the purpose and determination of a rampaging herd of buffalo. I cowered, then turned and ran to the back. Two others joined me, and we waited until the room turned back around and then searched, in vain, for a spot that wouldn’t endanger ourselves.

A hyper latin dance song came on and everyone cheered. More hips, breasts, sexy arm moves and feet skipping. Class had to be half over by now. Maybe I could escape. I checked the clock.

It had been 10 minutes.

I watched another newbie bail out. I yearned to follow her. I sternly lectured myself on the merits of staying and learning all the moves so I wouldn’t feel like an idiot next time. I missed an entire song arguing with myself.

I did manage to get through about forty minutes of the class. If you count mostly marching and waving my arms while they did complicated salsa steps as participation. When I realized I had stopped moving my feet and was now half-heartedly waving my hand instead of my arm, I bailed out, along with three other people. I don’t think the class missed us.

Maybe Peggy, my Kinect Fit instructor, isn’t so bad after all.

(4) comments

Add Your Reply