Gleeful Zumba in the Age of Fat Man Bad Tan
Today started with a particularly white home workout: Holiday Zumba set to the Glee Soundtrack. Yes, Virginia, I am a Suburban Mom.
One day I will sit my daughter down and explain to her that I used to be cool. I’ll pull out the maps and old plane ticket stubs that prove I was once a Traveler – capital T to emphasize pretentiousness. Of course, by virtue of my reliance on the scrapbooks of yesteryear, she’ll quickly see that my decent into Suburban Stereotype has been a steep one. But fear not, my child! For behold I find myself happy in my new Sperry short boot uniform of the ‘burbs.
And really, what better place to weather the storm of President Fat Man Bad Tan than here in my lovely little wooded neighborhood? And what better way to do it than with the ancient art of Zumba?
After a brief stint in Costa Rica, I have inside information that Zumba Latin Dance is not, in fact, the way that a true Latino/a/x exercises, or even dances past the age of four. Hate to break it to you, but if you, like me, are someone who congratulates themselves on getting the steps right to Zumba Sulu, you have just managed to complete the equivalent of a paint by numbers. No one in the Havana clubs will clap for that stuff.
But, even still, I stand by my Zumba self-confidence.
I’m normally not an anxious person, or even a grumpy one (Husband looks up in surprise then quickly pretends to agree), but 2020 has made me the same broken shell of a person that you probably are. No offense, Beee-atch! Naturally, I’ve reacted by running away to hide in the woods and dragged my family along with me. And each day that I wake up in our new house “up north” I am supremely glad that we did. However, Anxiety followed me through the forest like the Wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, sans comical granny getup. To combat it, Red Wine called and I answered, only to discover recently in a memo from my fat ass that that has actually made things worse. So, I’ve turned to Zumba.
Zumba’s an old friend, as are its business associates, Hip Hop and Dancercise. In Harlem I was by far the worst hippity hoppity hopper (and was asked to please never ever refer to it as ‘hippity hop’ again). In Vietnam I was by far the best AND biggest dancer. But I have found that my real place to shine is my living room, preferably with the shades pulled tightly shut. It’s here that my Latin Lover and I descend into our daily dance affair with only the TV screen to keep us apart. His eyes tell me to forget about everything else and just DANCE! – and so I do. The fact that my two-year-old now joins in wearing her rainbow clown dress does not distract from the palpable flirtation with the ol’ telly.
Anyhoo, I find that somewhere between my clunky cha-cha and overeager salsa, I feel better. I feel like at the end of this slobberchops year things will be ok. There will be a vaccine. The Great Pumpkin will have left the White House. Businesses will reopen. The environment will continue to suffer until we drive it completely into ruin…Ah! Anxiety! Quickly turn on the Zumba! Rrrumba, gimme some rrrrumba…ok feeling better now.
I guess my point is that eventually things will get better for us all. And in the meantime, there’s Zumba.