RE: (Humor) Hurry Up and Join the Party! Zoom-zoom-zumba!

Hurry up and Join the Party!

I’m a devotee of fast; fast walking, fast talking, and fast doing. I come by all of this honestly as I hail from a long line of extremely active folks for whom, “Hurry up!” was a type of mantra that prefaced, well, everything.

“Hurry up or you’re going to be late for school.”
“Hurry up or I’m going to be late for work.”
“Hurry up so we can enjoy all of those precious childhood moments and then firmly launch you into adulthood where you belong.”

My fast life style includes fast dancing, exemplifying my “let the good times roll” philosophy where I passionately pursue one hot tamale of a calorie-burning package: Zumba!

This Latin dance-inspired program even has a motto, “Ditch the Workout, Join the Party.” Any pursuit subscribing to such an energizing and positive agenda is my kind of activity and truth be told, any time I’m dancing it’s more fun-in, than work-out.

Plus, I love, love, love parties. Now I know folks like to spin that into: “I love, love, love alcohol-swilling, “where did my clothes go?” partyin’, but that’s not my interpretation though I admit it might make for a more interesting column.

There’s another reason that I am devoted to finding and attending every Zumba class and specially scheduled Zumba party taking place in my tri-county area of coverage.

I love all things Latin; as in Latin American Latin, not Roman Latin. When I’m influenced by the “scholarly” Latins I’m likely to overthink myself into a fluffy, intellectual state of caloric overindulgence. With the spicy Latin American Latins I’m in motion, thus avoiding the ice cream headache too much reflection can cause along with adding “more of me to love.”

Though I’ve glided along on the arm of my fair share of ballroom buddies and two-step twirlers, it is the “shake it until the sweat flies” Latin American moves of Salsa, Merengue, Mambo, and Cha Cha that have always converted me from onlooker toe tapping status to full-out dance floor performance mode.

After formally studying Spanish from tiny twinkie-dom through the full-grown college years, I am left with the dubious distinction of being able to roll a mean “r.”

Granted, remaining fluent in the language is a much more employable attribute; however, this talent comes in mighty handy when cha-cha-chaing with my fellow zumberizers.

Now we’ve got the fast dancing, the rolling of the r’s and, as if all of that doesn’t constitute a good enough Zumba fit, I am able to bust out a bevy of sounds I’m not usually able to work into my normal day-to-day activities.

(This is primarily due to various auditory county ordinances, code restrictions and with greater frequency, requests from others to stop emitting blood-curdling, banshee-like sounds. I also boast one memorable blast in my repertoire that is eerily reminiscent of Mel Gibson’s battle cry in Braveheart.)

Let me add that the vocalization Zumba inspires in me is more satisfying than that double shot of whipped cream on my pumpkin pie which, coincidentally, is one of the things that motated me on over to class on Thanksgiving Day.

There I was with 32 fabulous, inspirational, and gorgeous women burning more calories than I had consumed thus far. To be fair it was still only 10:00 a.m. in the morning, so I hadn’t been able to really apply myself fully to the task at hand.

During this class – and in all of my Zumba classes – I execute moves normally reserved for dark, smoky barrooms and open bar-fueled wedding receptions. I shimmy shamelessly as I channel Che Guevara in my rallying cry to fellow dancers yelling, “Ye, ye, ye! Viva la revolución” or something like that.

As a sidebar, there are other shouts, chants, war cries, and general auditory outbursts that work well in fitness classes:

Good for Zumba:
--¡Arriba!
-- ¡Vamános!

Good for martial artsy classes:
--Hi ya!
--Kiai! (pronounced key-eye)

Good for line dancing:
--Yee haw!
--Giddyup!

[Warning: Do not confuse any of the above calls with similar refrains, such as Soo-wee, Mayday, or God Save the Queen. These have no application whatsoever to the world of fitness; nevertheless, as you begin to achieve a state known as “muy caliente” you may find yourself nonsensically blurting them out.]

For all of these reasons I say, “Hurry up and Join the Party!” Just follow the auditory trail of those continuously trilling r’s over to zoom-zoom-zumba –– before the holiday scale zooms out of your comfort zone.

RE: (Humor) Care to take a poll? Pole fitness that is...THE NORTH AND SOUTH POLE

The North and South Pole

I’ll try just about anything (legal) once which is what propelled me into giving pole fitness a whirl. Literally.

The week leading up to the event I gleefully told anyone I came eyeball-to-eyeball with about my impending class. I loved seeing the look on their faces; something akin to horror and curiosity – horriosity maybe.

Eventually it dawned on me I needed to quit fooling around and prepare for the class mentally and physically.

Thus, I commenced with carrying out the equivalent of balloon flight offloading of unnecessary items and applied it to unnecessary calories.

I didn’t just purchase fruits and vegetables, so they could sit prettily in hand-painted bowls, but I actually ate them. All of them. All of the time. Because I was starving.

Then I turned my attention toward mental preparation. I needed to become at one with my not-as-yet-grasped pole. Be the pole.

I envisioned a mini training pole that I would twirl like a middle-aged Ninja, in readiness for the full Monty, so to speak. Then “wa-cha,” (a well-known Ninja sound effect), it would unfurl into full-scale and I would install it as easily as a shower curtain rod, albeit in a different direction.

My pole fitness instructor would be my Miyagi and it would feel as though I had been waiting my entire life for this moment. Okay, then I snapped to, hitting the humbling reality that was my pole. Literally.

As it turns out pole dancing is more pole than dancing.

Though Cirque de Soleil has never come knocking on my door, I have been dancing my whole life, even matriculating toward a dance minor and performing in a dance company. I was amazed at how well all of that did NOT prepare me for this particular foray.

I had fun stretching to the upbeat pop tunes and, initially, I was all sensuality and smiles as I shimmied closer to my pole. I’m on my way, oh, sexy, silent sentry.

As long as I was swinging along as though I was clutching a benign maypole I was in decent shape. Literally.

Arches, hip rolls, galloping horsie kicks. All good. Until we initiated our choreographed routine.

As executed by me, it did not manifest so much as an artistic form of expression, as it did a survivalist’s form of expression illustrating what it looks like to be hanging outside a 40-story building by a pole.

As I watched our teacher demo how the piece was supposed to be performed I realized I was so far out of my league I didn’t have a league.

Additionally, it is not a welcome sight to be standing adjacent to a reed thin pole in comparison to my not-so-reed-thin-like physique.

A few moves sent me into an ice skater death spiral, only I wasn’t on ice or skates and I was spinning on a pole.

The mirrored room that had looked so inviting when I arrived now garishly reflected my moves from the perspective of a fun house mirror. It mocked my every purposeful and not-so-purposeful move with exaggerated reflections of an act gone dreadfully wrong.

(By the way, screaming “Here I go!” does nothing by way of mastering the routine or scoring “pretty points.”)

The solution, and as it turns out the problem, was body weight. Not only was I attempting to launch, hold and swing my Rubenesque lusciousness up and onto a pole, but we were schooled to use our body weight for momentum. Uh-oh.

While our instructor beautifully rocked to and fro, using her pole as a prop that accentuated her lithe stature, flowing flexibility, and athletic prowess I was juxtaposed as the opposite of all that. I had taken my own advice to “be the pole” to heart; stiff, immovable, unable to change my form.

I’ve never been known for my skills at defying gravity as my severe pommel horse flashbacks will attest.

At one point I had the oddest sensation that I was being watched. As I glanced out the window I saw a group of someones standing in the parking lot – no less than 20 of them – watching my one-ring circus act due to my awesome pole positioning.

Pole fitness should encourage the inner vamp in you. For me, instead of a “come hither” look I had more of a “come hither and take me down” look.

While it was all good fun I’m not sure whether I’ll be working pole fitness into my regular exercise schedule.

I’m still undecided. Maybe I need to take a poll?