Chop the sugar cane

23 Jan

It’s taken me a long time to confess to this, but in the interests of doing some form of exercise before die, I have been going to zumba.

Yes, I know. When I casually mentioned this to my lifelong friend over the phone, her only response was hysterical laughter. (Thanks for your support, West.) But that’s how unsuited I am to zumba. I can’t dance, I’m mortally unfit, and I’m too self-conscious to go to the gym. But it’s only across the road, and my housemates persuaded me.

I’m not sure I’ve ever spent an hour doing anything so ridiculous.

To begin with, I concentrated very hard at displaying the imaginary candlesticks correctly, so as not to look a fool. I rejoiced at my ability to screw in the light bulbs in time, and thought that I probably looked better than the middle-aged woman behind me. She just looked silly carrying her giant invisible platter.

But after a while, standing there inexplicably twirling my arms while hopping on one leg, I inevitably catch someone else’s eye and we all start to giggle…

The thing is, after forty minutes, I’m so exhausted that the instructor’s authority over me becomes total. I’m too tired to argue and I will do whatever she tells me with unquestioning obedience. Chop the sugarcane again? Sure! Swim in the giant swimming pool? Right! I don’t even think it strange to be playing the imaginary bongos on the ceiling any more.

I’ve just witnessed fifty completely inept people in a small room trying to do an Irish jig. And I was one of them. Thanks, zumba. Thanks.


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