Don't Ask Me

So recently, we were test-driving a new gym. I had a free 7-day pass, and wanted to check out some of the classes. I was excited that they had Zumba, something I learned about from a late-night infomercial. They also had a general dance class that was held at a convenient time; my current gym offers only once dance class, and it contains the term "impact." That's something a person with a degenerative disc disorder needs to avoid, so I've never tried it. Still, I like to dance, so I figured this would be fun.

And was it ever! I had the best time! We did the can-can, a little salsa, a bit of merengue, and a whole lot of rump-shaking. I don't usually get to shake my rump in public, as I'm very white and overly tense... I won't say it's as bad as the "Elaine" dance, but I'm not loose and I seldom flow.

So while I'm not the world's best dancer, I was in fact a pretty good martial artist. My favorite part of training was kata, the forms that highlight stances and strikes in a slow, controlled environment. It was about precision, control, strength and endurance. We would often remark in class -- especially when watching the black belts do their advanced kata -- that it looked very much like a dance, and there was a special kind of grace that came from their power. I was good at kata.

But see, it's not exactly a dance. And that's hard for me to wrap my head around. The can-can is all about the high kick, but I guarantee the goal is not to high kick an opponent in the head. While some of the other ladies were wilting from the sustained, repetitive kicking, I was in my comfort zone. Except that my kicks looked... different. They weren't fluid or dainty; they were measured, precise, and strong.

Crap! I was doing karate in a dance class! Other mashed-up techniques followed: an accidental "knife hand" instead of a flirty hand wave, quick punches instead of arm shimmies. And, yes, during the can-can, I was blocking my head when I was kicking. Still, I was able to keep up, didn't faint, and no one seemed to notice that my dancing was a bit more bellicose than bella.

Thus, I was excited for Zumba the following Monday. I was lucky that karate also taught me to isolate my hips, so while my upper body might be a solid, unmoving mass, my lower body was fairly flexible. This would be great for a Latin-themed class. I imagined an instructor wearing shocking colors, Carneval music on the stereo, and a general feeling of fiesta. Ay, no. It ended up being the exact same class I'd taken the previous Friday. Turns out that teacher was subbing on Friday, and I guess did whatever she normally did when she taught. So, Monday was, again, lots of fun... but just another hour of rump-shaking and "knife hand."

I felt a little cheated. Did I Zumba? I have no idea. I was so excited to be part of this dance sensation that, while not exactly sweeping the nation, had made its way to Staten Island where it was endorsed by a good friend. Now I can't say for sure what I did. I will say, though, that there is a particular joy in pretending to be a writhing, lasso-wielding cowgirl while a man chanting "¡Dale, mamí, dale!"  blared from the speakers. I mean, when am I ever going to do that again?