An hour of pouring sweat. Completely breathless. Body shaking from sheer exhaustion. Yet somehow wishing it wasn’t over…
I’ve become hopelessly addicted to the latest exercise craze.
When my friend Cat tried to talk me into Zumba classes, I told her the painful truth: I have zero rhythm. No coordination. I didn’t want to make an idiot of myself in a class full of people who knew what they were doing.
But then I gave in and tried it. And despite flouncing around like a total goober, I can’t get enough.
The lights are low and the music is loud. And no one is watching you – they’re too busy trying to keep up with the instructor. With hops and shimmies and hip rolls, who has time to make fun of the rhythm-lacking fool in the back of the room?
Before you know it, you’re drenched in sweat and the hour is over. I leave class in a great mood, pumped from the energy of the music, with an endorphin high like I’ve never experienced with any other form of exercise.
It’s fantastic. I can’t wait until tomorrow night, when I’ll be back in that room full of mirrors, shaking it to Shakira.