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darkemeraldsI went to Zumba last night with Leslie.
I was pleased to be able to keep up aerobically with no problem, and though it was a good sweaty workout I didn't feel completely drained by it. All my muscles are sore today except the bike ones--even my hands, and I barely remember using them, but you do.
There were only six people in the class, and it took place next door to the gym in a salsa club: black walls, huge sunken dance floor, black-draped tables all around the edge, and a glittering bar. Great sound system. The teacher, Michele, looked like a movie star in her official Zumba gear and a sparkly headband.
So here's me, literally wrong-footed most of the time, unable to figure out how to do that thing with my arms, staring at Michele's feet, thinking, thinking, thinking about one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, telling myself that even if my moves are all wrong, it's still great exercise as long as I keep moving, and yet keenly aware of myself as an uptight, locked-up, clumsy, unrelaxed middle-aged white woman with no hip movement whatsoever...
...and of course the more I thought these thoughts, the more they became true and probably the stupider I looked.
I wonder if it's possible to change that, even a little: to find some remnant of the natural dancer that got tsked out of me early on. Not having the body to be a Serious Dancer should never be the cause of a person not dancing.
I'm going again tomorrow after work.
I was pleased to be able to keep up aerobically with no problem, and though it was a good sweaty workout I didn't feel completely drained by it. All my muscles are sore today except the bike ones--even my hands, and I barely remember using them, but you do.
There were only six people in the class, and it took place next door to the gym in a salsa club: black walls, huge sunken dance floor, black-draped tables all around the edge, and a glittering bar. Great sound system. The teacher, Michele, looked like a movie star in her official Zumba gear and a sparkly headband.
So here's me, literally wrong-footed most of the time, unable to figure out how to do that thing with my arms, staring at Michele's feet, thinking, thinking, thinking about one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, telling myself that even if my moves are all wrong, it's still great exercise as long as I keep moving, and yet keenly aware of myself as an uptight, locked-up, clumsy, unrelaxed middle-aged white woman with no hip movement whatsoever...
...and of course the more I thought these thoughts, the more they became true and probably the stupider I looked.
I wonder if it's possible to change that, even a little: to find some remnant of the natural dancer that got tsked out of me early on. Not having the body to be a Serious Dancer should never be the cause of a person not dancing.
I'm going again tomorrow after work.
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31/5/11 21:41 (UTC)(no subject)
31/5/11 21:50 (UTC)This is attempt number [X times several] over the years which the Major Tom in my brain has made to contact Ground Control. Not all of the attempts have involved music or dance, but I've been balloon-head for most of my life, and the string down to the physical realm is pretty tenuous.
Overcoming the straitjacketing physical shame is the hardest thing about going and practicing and re-trying. I'm getting there.