I attended my second Zumba class yesterday. No one got hurt. Not me. Not the unsuspecting women next to me who had no idea they were exercising near a woman who has the coordination of a drunk three-legged giraffe.
And in the midst of the class I had a wonderful revelation: I am a terrible dancer and I don't care. As I attempted the steps in time with the instructor whose ability to dance and smile at the same time still baffles me, I realized that everyone else was doing their own thing and probably didn't have time to notice how badly I was doing. Even the super-intense women, clad in their Zumba merch? They were busy dancing and enjoying themselves.
It's a good lesson about life. We care so much about what others think, how people will react to what we do. The truth is that most of the time, they're invested in living their own lives and don't really notice what you're doing unless your actions pull them out of their own routine. Like if you topple into them mid Samba roll.
It was freeing to cast off the middle-school self-consciousness and just *dance*. Badly.
My name is Aimie and I'm a bad dancer. And that's fine.
Also? Down about three pounds. I'll take it!