Never let 'em see you sweat


I complain a lot about how much I hate to exercise. Okay, I complain, but I still go regularly to the Y and ride the stationary bike, and I don't complain if I've got a good book to read to distract me. (I know. Slacker. Shut up.) But I have been going faithfully and I never love it any more than before. I have no clue where "the zone" even is. But I keep going. And keep gritting my teeth. And just bear it.

Until last night.

I blame Carrie.

She was the one who raved about Zumba as an alternative to a regular aerobics class. And I've been searching for a local Zumba class near me for about the past year.
So I was delighted to find that my local YMCA (where I go anyway) would be starting Zumba classes in March.
Last night was my first class.

I proudly walk into the fitness studio to find that I'm not only the oldest person there, but the most . . . umm . . . well. . . not thin. (=D)

Never one to be shy, I position myself (where else?) in the very front row, directly behind the teeny-tiny (practically invisible, but that's not important right now) instructor.

I could tell by the sidelong glances I was getting that they were sure I would be the first to drop, but then. . .


Salsa! Then merengue! Then mambo! Calypso! Cha-cha! (Or Cha-cha-cha as we say in Cuba. The 3 cha's indicate the rhythm you're supposed to be dancing to,  but that's not important right now.)


About 30 minutes into it, I was surprised that a few people were already heading to the back door. Say what?

Me? I was IN THE ZONE, Baby!

Heck, I was BORN for this!

I can't wait to go back on Thursday. 

(Until then I'll just amuse myself by rotating the ice-packs between each of my knees and thanking God that I survived, but that's not important right now).  ;-)