Tuesday, August 23, 2011

your mom looks hot in spandex.

i am officially obsessed with zumba. OBSESSED, even though i loathe most forms of physical activity. yes, including sex. a few weeks ago i took some files back to the kennel area of the hospital and found all of the techs and assistants gathered open-mouthed around the giant flatscreen computer monitor that hangs in the treatment area. they were watching a youtube video of this upbeat latina standing in the front of a dance studio full of gorgeous thirtysomethings scantily-clad in brightly-colored, clingy dancewear, leading them in choreographed latin-lite dance moves. "what the fuck is this shit?" i asked betty, and she rolled her eyes and was like, "this is ZUMBA, sam," like i was an asshole for not knowing that shit. "i thought zumba was a region in mexico," i shrugged. "wait a minute, are they dancing to PITBULL?! this is my jammm." i pushed betty out of the way, tossed the files on the floor (sorry, animals!), and started to cha-cha and shake my jelly along with the sexy young things in the video. pitbull makes me want to take my PANTS OFF. we did that video three times, and by the end i was sweaty and hoarse from screaming "damelo!" at the top of my lungs for twenty goddamned minutes. and i wanted more. so kate and i decided to take a zumba class the next morning at the YMCA.

working out is a bummer. seriously. walking on a treadmill for forty-five minutes while listening to the same playlist over and over and trying to read the closed captioning of a television show you don't even care about because the gym regulars always get first pick of the channels is a TOTAL FUCKING DRAG. the elliptical machine makes uncoordinated people look stupid. the stair machine reduces mere mortals to tears within four minutes. the stationary bike feels like uncomfortable buttsex. who wants to put the twinkies down and get out of bed for any of that?!

a couple months ago my little vegan russian trainer lesbian moved to hawaii so she could run marathons and mack grass skirt bitches in a temperate climate, i guess. at first i was sad, but then i thought, "now there will be no one to scowl disapprovingly at my stomach roll! hooray!" during our last training session, right after i'd completed seven of the fifty sit-ups she'd asked me to do and declared that i was finished, she said, "you my most disappointing client." and i read that as "this tiny lesbian says it's okay for me to keep eating red meat and cupcakes in bed. excellent." we did some partner stretches (i was even bad at STRETCHING, omg), and after she adjusted my knee for the fourth time she said, "i worry about your lazy ass. we will text when i go." i nodded, but my brain said, "fine, bitch. TEXTS don't have EYES."

a week after she left i got a text from russian lesbian that read: what is for lunch, s?
i replied: lean cuisine!
russian lesbian: and what?
me, hesitantly: water...?
russian lesbian: AND WHAT?
me, breaking into a liar's sweat: um, oxygen?
russian lesbian: WHAT ELSE?! (i could hear her shouting in my brain)
me, still trying to be on some bullshit: granola bar.
russian lesbian: i know you lie.
me: okay okay. a granola bar and an apple.
russian lesbian:
me: and a diet coke.
russian lesbian:
me: oh, and i had half a doughnut this morning.
russian lesbian:
me: okay fine, a WHOLE doughnut.
russian lesbian:
me, sighing: two doughnuts.
russian lesbian:
me: and i might have also had a beer before work.
russian lesbian: i hate you.

i'm not going to lie and say that i started giving a shit, because for real I DON'T. but at some point i was just like, "holy fucking shit, i do not MOVE," and i'm not old enough to get away with that. yet. eventually a bitch has to start thinking about building some goddamned muscle and strengthening her bones or whatever. i'm lazy and research is boring, but i got on the internets anyway to try to find out whatever i could about the torture i was about to subject myself to.

"ditch the workout and join the party!" the official website shouted at my eyeballs. zumba "is the only latin-inspired dance-fitness program that blends red-hot international music and contagious steps to form a "fitness-party" that is downright addictive!" i am suspicious of words like "addictive" and "contagious." and i immediately blanched while clicking through all of the pictures of lean and toned bitches gyrating in crop tops and neon cargo pants, perfect bodies beaded with sweat; toothy, open-mouthed smiles that scream, "I AM HAVING THE TIME OF MY YOUNG AND ATTRACTIVE LIFE." blarf. i am a negative person by nature, and i typically shy away from anything that requires me to be having visble fun. i like to do stuff that i can sit quietly in the back and enjoy, and i have spent my entire adult life perfecting a bored yet slightly amused and entertained facade. and i just don't understand being excited about exercise. it's like doing a cartwheel on your way to have a root canal. my face just doesn't light up at the prospect of ab isolations. also? the pictures. look at that dude with his SHIRT OFF. i'm not trying to embarrass myself tripping over my feet doing salsa steps while some red-hot international instructor rolls his eyes in disgust and bounces quarters off of his ridiculously chiseled abs. i mean, come on.

sunday morning i got up and put socks and my old new balances on with my pajamas. i can't compete with these jerks doing a revolutionary new fitness concept *snicker* while wearing bikini tops and shit, so i decided it was in the best interest of my self-esteem to go to the opposite end of the clothing spectrum and just look like absolute shit during class. because even if i busted my melon open while trying to cumbia to the beat, is that a real thing?, at least my jibs would be appropriately covered. i took three aleve and a celebrex (not kidding) and tried to stretch my achilles so that asshole wouldn't snap in the middle of a jam. i paid the $15 drop-in fee and we went up to the gym, and i hovered with kate and our friend libby near the back of the room, anxious for all of the j. lo lookalikes to start pouring in and making me feel bad about that container of greek yogurt i'd eaten before kate had picked me up.

and then your mom came in wearing booty shorts and the shirt she wears to wash the dishes, flanked on either side by your aunt and your recently-retired fifth grade teacher. her sewing circle showed up next, as did her crochet buddies and all of the ladies from book club with the exception of kathy, whose son had strep so she decided to stay home with him. there's the woman who cuts your mom's hair, and diane who works at chico's in the mall. the school board ladies, the PTA, and the soccer moms came running in, too, clad in unfortunate biker shorts and racerback tanks with their hair pulled up in banana clips and scrunchies. hot zumba aficionados don't go to the evanston ymca, i guess. i don't know what i was so fucking worried about.

"i thought this was for attractive young people?" i wondered aloud.

a lady down the way looked me up and down as she pulled a protein bar from her fanny pack. "yeah," she said, eyeing my flabby triceps, "ME, TOO."

the music started and our teacher, a boisterous woman who was in your mom's brownie troop, started shouting and dancing and pointing out people who sucked as we tried desperately to follow along. i was winded after the first song, and twenty minutes in i told kate to call me a goddamned ambulance. i was sweating in the grossest possible way, sweat dripping from my hair into my eyelashes and shit. your mom is pretty good at zumba, but thank horus that bitch ain't got no rhythm. the only thing that kept me from looking like a complete asshole was my blackness, which kicked in right when i needed it most. i might not have gotten every single step, but at least i wasn't clapping half a second behind the BEAT. and most of the choreography can be faked pretty well if you can count to four and move your hips accordingly.

despite the fact that i really did almost keel over and die, i was fucking hooked. i can't smile while skipping and jumping and fist-pumping or whatever, but i loved that shit. loud-ass music at nine-thirty in a room full of WASPs who are coming down off a chardonnay bender?! MORE, PLEASE. these broads yell and woop and scream for an hour, then each one towels off and hops in her land rover to go get a skinny latte from starbucks. it's magical.

the minute that first class was over i vomited my right lung onto the locker room floor, then we went downstairs and i paid a hundred dollars to join the Y. that shit was fun, my heart rate was almost high enough to make me feel like an actual sentient human being, and ricky martin made a lot of good dance music for your information so bite your tongue, hater. plus, it's obvious that i need other people to hold my ass accountable for my physical fitness. and that's SO LAME, knowing that i need the withering gaze of your hot-flashed perimenopausal mother to get me to samba my way to maybe living past the age of thirty-seven, but admitting defeat is the first step, right? i despise the treadmill, but pretending i can salsa to pitbull for an hour is fucking awesome. plus your mom said she would bake me cookies and give me a hamstring massage next week. and that bitch has a tight ass. i've been noticing.

it's been five weeks. five weeks of doing this shit four or five times a week. five weeks of regular zumba with your mom, zumba toning with your aunt, and your grandma and i are about to start aqua zumba in a couple weeks. we also do kickboxing twice a week, and sometimes pilates if we're feeling ambitious. and i have only been buying lean cuisines and sugar free jello pudding, because i'm lazy and 1 i only like to cook when i might get laid afterward and 2 I HATE CHEWING. i've already lost ten fucking pounds. seriously, dudes, a bitch is wearing JEGGINGS.

i texted russian lesbian a couple weeks ago to rub my newfound dedication to working out (lolz) in her skinny face.
me: i'm doing zumba now. it's super fun.
russian lesbian: what is that? some new thing you eat?
me:
russian lesbian: sounds fattening, whatever it is.
me: i hate you.