I WAS IN A NIGHTCLUB…ONCE, IN BRATTLEBORO, VT. ALMOST DIDN’T GET IN—-N.Y.S. DIDN’T HAVE PHOTOS ON THEIR DRIVER’S LICENSES BACK THEN!!!! 🙂
Zumba is like a cruel trick on the elderly ladies in the sparsely populated fitness room: an eight-dollar drop-in fee for overly complicated dance steps and music featuring figures such as Pitbull, who croons words the women can’t-and-likely-shouldn’t comprehend. The twenty-something yoga-pant-wearing teacher encourages them to get into the songs, to shimmy and shake their chests. Our shrewd oldsters put their arms out and merely move their heads. They opt for optical illusions in order to preserve modesty, and not hurt the poor girl’s feelings.
The enthusiastic Zumba leader stops between each song, tells them to drink water, introduces the next routine: grapevine right, tap, step out, kick, forward, back, cha-cha-cha, half step, turn, hip circle. Okay?
One meek student asks that the instructions be repeated. The teacher complies–to the continued bewilderment of the seasoned citizens–then straightens her ponytail. “Got it?”
At the cue of general shrugging, the music begins…
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