Three times a week I Zumba. I doubt that I am really good at it because my white, lanky body just whips around to Latin music, but I still go faithfully, three times a week. Not only do I just whip around for an hour, but I am also the largest person in the room. And while I love being in the front row, nobody behind me can even fathom what the instructor is doing, and they all have to follow my wild spasms that I call exercise.
The first class I attended, a little woman told me that I was not allowed to dance in the front because nobody else could see. I was shocked that she would be so upfront about it, so I laughed but stayed put. The woman then became very confrontational, trying to intimidate me into moving to the back of the classroom; I’m sure it would have worked if she wasn’t the size of an adolescent. She then moved to the far end of the classroom where she wouldn’t have to deal with the blockade that is my body.
For the three months that I have attended, I have committed assault at least once a week to the ladies who dance around me. I have stomped feet, elbowed eyes, smacked heads, slapped cheeks, kicked hands, and any other verb-noun combo one could think of. Usually these are not my fault, but the ladies around me, because they stomp right when we are supposed to stomp left, or they decide to stand as close as possible to me as humanly imaginable.
I come twenty minutes early to Zumba, every class. This is to ensure my spot in front so that I don’t get shoved to the far side by the yoga balls or in the back where the most obese women reside. This usually ensures my spot, but some Zumba-ers come in two minutes before the class starts and try to push me out of my area. The worst spot stealer is Farting Abuelita. She likes to just shuffle in and stand two inches away from me, thinking that she can evacuate me with her chorizo farts, but I, having lived with the most disgusting roommates on the planet, am immune to the stench, and continue to dance. One would think that because she is old and frail that I would try my best not to stomp on her, but I feel no remorse. If she gets in my way, I don’t mind giving her a stomp. Hopefully she will learn her lesson before I break her hip.
I have one other Zumba-er that refuses to be anywhere but the front of the class. Snarlyface Zumbapants. She is a middle aged Latina who has attended for almost a year and knows every dance by heart. Obviously she gets her name due to her outgoing personality and sense of style. And while I have danced next to her for months, she has only said one word to me. “Pescado.” I was asking the instructor for a specific dance, and because all the songs are in foreign languages, I don’t necessarily know what they are called. So I do a few dance steps so she can find the song and Snarlyface looks at me and says, “Pescado.” I ask, “Is that the name of the song?” She just stares back at me, purses her lips, and nods, “Pescado.” I’m uncertain if she knows how to say anything else, but I am afraid if I strike up a conversation to find out, she might rip off my head, screaming, “PESCADO!”
Not all of the Zumba-ers are bad, and I have actually managed to build a friendship with a tall, lanky woman who dances behind me. Although I don’t know her name, and she doesn’t know mine, we still chat like old girl-friends until we are glared at by the conservative, traditional, catholic attendees. Last week, she and I were discussing tattoos and she decided to show me all the tattoos she had. This was fine until the tramp stamp was revealed and reflected throughout the room on the tinfoil wallpaper that is supposed to be akin to mirrored walls. Immediately there was an uproar from the Latinas—in Spanish of course. While I have lost most of my Spanish, I could still understand what the Latinas were saying (and it wasn’t very nice). My friend and I just laughed, and she then told me she would show me her other tattoos outside of class. We made sure to swing our elbows, extra wide, for the rest of class.
