Day One Minus One
Ahhhh….. learning, learning…. Started writing this last night but Morpheus descended before I could finish so I thought I’d complete it when I could think. It’s gone. Like a dream so strong you KNOW you’ll remember it in the morning so you don’t rouse yourself, turn the light on and write it down, it had slipped into cyberspace.

On Sunday morning, perhaps precipitating this need to express myself to the world, I rose early to attend my first Zumba class. If you haven’t already discovered Zumba, it’s a cross between Latin dance and aerobics. I’d been hearing about Zumba from a friend who was completely addicted. She keeps trying to lure me to her class with bait like “It’s free! There are so many people there, I’ll just open the back door and sneak you in.” Okay, “free” is attractive. But being an illegal alien in an overcrowded room full of sweating women trying to cha-cha their way to fitness is not. What if I got caught? What if one of them bumped into me? Yicch!

But this was a private class and only 20 women had signed up. It was being given as a fundraiser by the local Hadassah chapter. This should have been a clue.

I left my husband sleeping after a very late night at work (actually, it was more like a mild coma) and searched the bottom drawer of my dresser for just the right pair of exercise pants to wear. I tried on two pair before opting for the soft, black capris. Then I rooted through my shirts for the twisted lilac dance top that I had hidden after those last five pounds. I was going for a funky, sexy look, knowing that I’d be staring into a mirror for a full hour and that I did not want to see that middle-aged woman who lives in my bathroom. I brushed my hair back behind my ears; chic. I put on make-up! Who puts on make-up to go to an exercise class? I was determined not to be defeated by a bad self-image. I needed the person in my head to be the person in the mirror. I looked pretty good. I popped into the car and zipped over to the newly renovated fitness center in town. The woman in the lobby guided me downstairs to the classroom where Hadassah Zumba would be held.

I was greeted by an older woman in shorts and Keds. I hadn’t seen Keds in years! I was in Valley Forge, PA rehearsing “Wonderful Town” when Peter Genero sent me shopping for Keds to replace the character shoes I’d shown up in. He said “real dancers wore sneakers”. Okay. It was 1977 and I’d been hired as a ‘singer who moved well ’as opposed to a ‘dancer who sings’. But, in the absence of the musical director who’d hired me, Peter forgot who was who and so we all had to dance. I was terrified but that’s another story.

So I’m looking at the Keds I hadn’t seen in 32 years. They were pristine, never-been-worn-white; almost as white as her legs. Here it was August and those knees had not seen sunlight until today. I was the first to arrive. I got my name tag and was asked to fill out a liability waiver. Still I’m only mildly suspicious. Then the others started to arrive, each one older than the one before. Sixties… seventies… eighties… a bevy of spry little seniors excitedly filling out liability waivers… My hopes for any meaningful aerobic exercise were ebbing. But I had paid my $5 and there was no way to leave gracefully because they were ALL talking to me! Who was I? What was my connection to Hadassah? I should join! It would be so nice to have more young members! I told them my mother was a member and my grandmother had been a Pioneer Woman before that. A couple of them waxed nostalgic over the Pioneer Women, the group that had become Hadassah in the mid-last century. I had proven my pedigree. (In truth, there were one or two women there near my age and they eagerly encouraged my participation by informing me that a ‘40-60 group’ was trying to gain momentum by meeting at a bar on Thursday nights.)

The yoga class that preceded us finally cleared out of the room and we entered to await the start of Zumba. People kept talking to me and I realized there was a certain air of expectation in their tone, as if they were waiting for me to do something. They thought I was the teacher! Oh, no I assured them. I was a novice.

Moments later, Cherry arrived; a gorgeous, toned, muscled black goddess in her mid fifties who took one look at us, put her things down and announced that she had to pee. I’m guessing she went out to rethink her lesson plan. But she returned and boldly announced that if we thought she was going to take it easy on us, we were mistaken. If we felt it was too much, we were to stop. If she jumped up with enthusiasm, we had permission to stay on the ground. If we needed a water break we were to take it but for-God’s-sake-keep-moving! I surmised that in this way she would be able to distinguish the tired from the dead. And she started the music.

An hour of cha-cha, meringue (Did I spell that right or did I just put down a pie-topping?), salsa and hips. It was like a Bar Mitzvah without the free booze. I had a ball. I sweated and cha-chad until I didn’t think my feet could move anymore. And most of those women stayed with it! Okay, a few left almost immediately. One took pictures. Others sat around admiring our vigor, also just like at a Bar Mitzvah. But the bulk of the women just kept on dancing! It was inspiring. It was competitive. How could I stop when Bubby was still going? My knees turned to Jello with sharp toothpicks inside. Sweat beaded off the tip of my nose and my lilac dance top turned a deep purple. I laughed out loud and secretly thanked my parents for teaching me all those Latin dances when my generation was doing the Twist.

I don’t know if I’ll join Hadassah but it doesn’t seem like a terrible thought. I will go back to Zumba just as soon as I can walk again.