Zoom-zoom-zoom.

Confession time. Since you guys are all intimate, close friends of mine, it is only natural that I share with you personal information via a blog post, right? Great! So here it is.

I like Zumba.

Seriously, I know this is a "jokey" blog, but that was really hard for me to admit. I like Zumba.

For those unfamiliar, "Zumba" is basically a modern version of this:

   

. . . except way cooler. It varies a lot from class to class, but my personal favorites are the classes that play pop music and use dance-club moves. You know, like the kind of moves you would see in the club, if you ever went to clubs, or knew where a club was located.

So anyway, I really like going to these hardcore booty-shaking Zumba classes, and that is fine, provided that no one I know ever sees me do it. 

When I zumba alone, I can pretend that I look really cool. I can pretend that my moves are attractive and I look good in my clearance-rack workout gear. And I actually do believe that sometimes, because aerobically-released endorphins are a real thing.

But if someone I knew were to actually see me zumbaing, the illusion would be ruined. I would have to face the harsh reality of my Irish-Catholic rhythms and extreme inflexibility. Not to mention it would be awkward and terrible for everyone involved.

When it comes down to it, I pretty much hate the idea of running into anyone I know while working out in any form. When I exercise, I am in a zone of gross, anti-social sweatiness. So friendly chit-chat is pretty much out of the question.

So you can imagine, you can just imagine, the absolute horror I felt when I was mid-zumba, gyrating to the beat, when I saw someone I knew in the class.

I was late, so I found a little spot toward the back and got right to it -- throwing my hands in the air as if I just did not care. It was then I noticed two women whispering behind me conspicuously. My immediate reaction was: why are these jerks talking about me when I'm just trying to get my groove on?

Of course then I thought, these women are not talking about me! Why am I so narcissistic? What is this, middle school? Needless to say, I felt a little stupid. So I ignored it went back to bumping and grinding.

Later, I turned around to get a sip from my water bottle and OH DEAR GOD IT WAS MY STUDENT.

My STUDENT was standing directly behind my wiggling-booty the whole time. She was the one whispering to her neighbor, who happened to be her mother, and my middle-school sixth sense of being whispered about was proven dead-on once again. 

So basically, at this point, my life was over and I was planning to go dig a large hole somewhere and live in it forever. I would bring my children with me and teach them to live off the hole, eating worms and minerals to stay alive while I taught them everything I know: grammar and musical theater.

But first I had to think of the least-weird way to deal with the apocalyptic situation before me. To turn around and leave would be obvious, and I'd have to walk directly around her to get to the door anyway. So I stayed. I tried to keep dancing, but everytime we were supposed to turn in a circle I just pretended to turn so I wouldn't acidentally face her. Let's just say it was not my best stuff.

When it was over I acted like I really needed a Kleenex from the front, so I went up there and pretended to blow my nose for like five minutes until she was gone. Then I went out the back, ran to my car, and screamed all the way home.

After some time I decided that perhaps living the rest of my life in a hole was extreme, and that my children may benefit from things like sunlight, and math. So I did the next best thing and blocked the event from my mind. As I write this, I'm pretending it's just a funny "what if?" story, rather than the waking nightmare it actually is.

Thankfully, "the student" seems to be handling it the same way. I think she's convinced herself that it wasn't actually me, just someone who looked like me. Just a really good, awesome dancer who looks a lot like her English teacher. Besides, to out me would mean admitting she goes to the same Zumba class as her teacher -- and no middle-schooler is going to admit that.

Ever.



ZUMBA.