Zumba, baby – that’s where it’s all at apparently. So I went along to give it a try. I’ve heard many people talking about it as a new fitness ‘craze’ and, as there was a class at my local parish centre, I thought I’d take the opportunity to find out what the 12 million people worldwide who take weekly Zumba classes are enjoying so much.
Anything that advertises itself as ‘ditching the workout’ seems ideal to me, especially when the ads are accompanied by the tagline ‘party yourself into shape’.
I was at my most sleek during my university years when I was out several nights a week dancing until the wee hours. What a golden opportunity to rediscover my thinner body.
And, being in a church-owned property, I prayed it would not be too taxing.
But it turns out that the class was run by a smiling demon. You know the type, young and pretty and very fit, they say ‘go at your own pace’ but you never do because you used to be vaguely athletic once and the need to prove that takes over your soul.
As does the determination to show that you are co-ordinated and can turn in a circle while waving your arms in the air in a salsa-esque move.
Of course, when I was out rocking the social circuits, I wore the tightest clothing I could breathe in.
But this time around I thought that tracky bottoms might be slightly more appropriate. Unfortunately the old and baggy state of mine meant that they fell down each time I wriggled.
That, added to the fact that I need a bra for my bottom when I’m Zumba-ing meant I created a new move of surreptitiously hoisting up my pants while going sideways to save the poor woman’s eyesight behind me.
I must have over-exerted myself because the next day I couldn’t walk or even lift a cup of coffee to my lips.
You’d think a bit of booty shaking wouldn’t be all that taxing, but this certainly was.
It wasn’t really the lovely instructor who was the demon, it was my inner competitive self which made me push myself to the maximum.
I’ll still go back though. The only question is what do I wear?