It was dark so I couldn’t actually see them roll their eyes, but I’m pretty sure they did.
“Really,” I continued, “they should open a gym specifically for fat people. You’d have to be at least 50 pounds overweight to join. And they could sell work-out clothes in plus sizes because let me tell ya, you can’t find that stuff in regular stores! And regular, normal-looking people would work there instead of crazy-buff, hot guys and model-looking girls who make you feel like why bother?”
"Are you done now?”
“I thought it was a good idea,” I muttered to myself as we walked inside.
Once inside the studio, I took my place at the back of the room, far away from the instructors, and more importantly, the enormous mirrors that completely covered the front wall.
“In my Fat Gym, there wouldn’t be mirrors on the walls,” I stated.
Codi and Savannah shook their heads.
“Ooooo, oooo! Or there would be mirrors, but they’d be fun park mirrors that made you look thinner! Yes! Now THAT’S motivation! I am totally on to something here! I know there’s a market for it! I, for one, would join the Fat Gym!” I gazed in the distance and announced dramatically, “The Fat Gym – a comfortable place to work out. I have a slogan and everything!”
Before Savannah and Codi could tell me to stop talking, the music started and everyone collectively moved; synchronized dance moves that everyone, but I somehow knew. I felt like I’d been plunked in the middle of a musical where everyone but me knew the intricately choreographed dance moves. I tried to follow the instructor’s lead, but since I’d taken up residence at the very back of the room, I couldn’t see the instructor. I did, however, get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like this:
Unable to see the instructor, I picked out a person who looked like she knew what she was doing and tried to follow her. Savannah and Codi who had never done Zumba seemingly picked it up with no effort. Maybe they weren’t as polished as the women who had clearly been doing Zumba since the day they’d learned how to walk, but they were following along and holding their own. I, on the other hand, could not, for the life of me, make my body move even remotely like anyone else in the room. Except for the man in the back with me who was 75 years old if he was a day. I was doing almost as well as he was. Almost. Being shown up by a member of the geriatric crew does wonders for one's self-esteem.
I stopped trying and stood there nervously laughing. "I don't get it! I have no idea what everyone is doing!" I felt like a total dork. Why had I agreed to try this? And why was the music so darn fast???
After about half an hour, I finally started picking up some of the moves. The only problem is that I was 2 steps behind. By the time I finally caught on to what they were doing, everyone else had moved ahead and was doing something else. As everyone moved to the left, I moved to the right. I crashed into the woman next to me. “I’m so sorry.” I tripped into the person on the other side. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing!”
She responded, “It’s okay.” What she meant was, “What’s wrong with you?!” I felt like I was in an episode of I Love Lucy. And I was Lucy.
Feeling a modicum of confidence since I'd been able to make my feet move like everyone else's (albeit a few moves late), I got cocky and decided to add arm movements. Up until this point, my arms had just hung like fat sausages at my sides. This is the point when I learned I have zero coordination. ZERO. COORDINATION. I am physically unable to make my feet and my arms move with any semblance of agility whatsoever. I am a total and complete spaz. This is why I never dance unless I've consumed copious amounts of alcohol at which point I cease caring about my spaziousitude and just have fun. The next time I go to Zumba (isn't that funny how I imply there will be a next time?), I'm going to drink first. Then I'll just rock out to Shakira and Pitbull without a care in the world.