Humiliation–Zumba Style

I’ve seen it on TV and heard friends talk about what a blast the classes are, so just for grins I decided to try a Zumba class.

Before I even got to class I was already stressed out – I don’t have any cute workout clothes.  My workout clothes consist of either a) an old T-shirt, ratty shorts, and my running shoes or b) a worn pair of yoga pants and tank top.  That’s it. 

So I dug out my least worn (and least favorite) yoga pants and a top and head for class.  When I got to the gym, the other gals had already taken their positions in the class.  I was hoping for a secluded spot in back but the back row crew was firmly planted.  I was told firmly by the leader of the pack that I was going to have to move up to the next row.


Then Zumba Barbie walked in.

And I knew I was in big trouble.

Zumba Barbie was in head to toe “Zumba” gear which consisted of:

  • “Zumba” cargo pants (a la Michael Jackson 1985)
  • “Zumba” hoodie (which she promptly removed to show off her sleek shoulders and arms)
  • “Zumba” tank top (which revealed the huge butterfly tattoo on her shoulder)

I should have run when I had the chance.

ZB was probably in her late twenties and had an amazing figure which was probably honed by hours of all night of salsa dancing with Zumba Ken. But as intimidated as I was by her, the real reason I hated Zumba was this…

…Momma can’t dance.

yes I know I just referred to myself as “Momma”…in third person no less.

Believe me – this is not a new revelation.  I am as uncoordinated and self-conscious as they come.  But normally, dancing involves friends, cosmos, and lots of laughter which helps to minimize the anxiety that dancing brings about.

Anyway, ZB fiddles with her IPod and class starts to the familiar riff of Ice, Ice Baby

“dum dum dum dudda du dum, dum dum dum dum dudda du dum.  Alright stop.  collaborate and listen…”

God, help me.

ZB let out a big “Wooohoooo!” and then things really got rolling. The music alternated between hip-hop and Latin style dance music.  I was hoping that a little Livin’ la Vida Loca might unlock some hidden salsa goddess within, but she was not to be found. 

As class went on, I kinda, sorta kept up with the basic moves like toe taps and grapevines.  But the dancing.  And the fist pumping.  And the hip swinging.  And (oh dear God) the shimmying. 


ZB would occasionally go around the class and shake her groove thing with the other ladies.  And quite often she and Zumba Skipper would break out into free-style routines which usually involved them standing back to back and shaking their money makers.

So the humiliation ensued , then finally 45 minutes (and two more rotations of Ice, Ice Baby) later, class was finally over.

I left the gym as fast as I possibly could.

Later at home, as I described the class to Kelsey, she said, “Way to go Momma!  Were you Poppin’ it?”

I was definitely NOT “Poppin’ it.”

I guess if you really loved to dance then it would be a great workout.  For me, I think I’d rather just get my girls and go dancing.

For now, I’m going to stick to running and yoga.

And my white girl shuffle.

I’m not sure the world is ready for Uncoordinated, Awkward Barbie.

Peace, Kelly


About Minding My Nest

wife, mom, not-so-empty nester.
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