My concentration flagged for a moment when I lost my footing in a puddle of my own sweat. Stay focused, I told myself. You’ve got this.
And I did have it, sort of. My body was moving in roughly the same ways as all the people around me—ways my body was decidedly not used to moving.
I ended up in my first Zumba class due to a confluence of long-term curiosity and serendipity. It just so happened that there was a Zumba class starting at the gym as I walked in one day. I had heard good things about it, and had even watched parts of a class as I chugged away, bored, on the elliptical machine I’d been frequenting since quitting my mixed martial arts gym four months earlier. I peered into the fishbowl of the group exercise room. They looked like they were having fun.
It was fun, I discovered. Fun and slightly mortifying. My Northern European roots equipped me with competence in following your basic 1-2-3-kick, 1-2-3-clap rhythms; but salsa and merengue were like quantum physics for my feet. Had it been a square-dance fitness class, I would have killed it. As it was, I was just barely keeping up.
Our gym is one link in a mega-chain of gyms. It’s in a trendy, diverse, gay-centric neighborhood, and its clientele has the reputation of being serious about group exercise, and unforgiving to instructors who don’t bring it. But if the 30-some women and five dudes who skillfully shimmied as I lumbered alongside them harbored any bad feelings toward me—if they even noticed that I was there—they didn’t let on. I Zumba-ed like nobody was watching.
And then came the booty-shaking part of the class. The speakers pulsed with Kat DeLuna’s “Whine Up.” Louis, the instructor, shouted, “One! Two! Boom Boom Boom!” thrusting his pelvis forward and back with piston-like power and fluidity.
I could have shuffled in place instead, but I was determined not to wimp out. After a lifetime of trying not to draw attention to my ass, I shook it. Not only back-and-forth, but also side-to-side. Nerve endings that had never been fired clicked like dead igniters on a gas grill, but finally sparked to life, activating muscles that had only twitched involuntarily, if ever. While Louis’s hips hit every beat with the smooth precision of a Lexus, mine sputtered like an old Dodge truck with a couple of frayed spark plug wires and a leaky fuel pump. The mirror confirmed the feedback that my body was giving me: This was not pretty. Another thing I noticed in the mirror was my big idiot-grin.
I’m at a point in my life where I want to try uncomfortable things that I wouldn’t have risked as a younger man. It’s one of the advantages of being a middle-aged, minivan-driving dad. You become liberated from the shackles of coolness.
As an uncool dad, I have tried other uncomfortable things in the name of fitness and exposing myself to unfamiliar social situations. At the beginning of this year, for instance, I decided I would try my hand at hand-to-hand combat. I had been in a fitness rut. At best, I would go through the motions of the same workouts I had been doing for years. Often, I was so uninspired at the prospect of exercising that I just wouldn’t bother. But this new thing—learning how to fight—was something I was so fascinated by, and yet inexperienced in, that I would schedule my days around class times so I didn’t miss anything. I had trouble sleeping on nights before a workout, and practiced combinations of punches and kicks while out for my nightly stroll, much to the consternation of my skittish dog.