Friday, March 30, 2012

My new Zumba teacher is a brown ball of a woman and I think I am growing a girl crush on her. I don’t know.  Her big belly, her big butt.  How she wears black tights and pink tank tops.  How her hair is both red and brown at the same time.  How she yells at us.  How she makes certain faces during certain moves.  How she pumps her fists.  How she shakes her shoulders, sways her hips.  How she gets low.  How she likes the music so loud I can’t almost stand it.  It’s all very admirable.  It’s all very “I want to be like her.”  She brought my skepticism at her larger frame to shame.  This girl kicks my ass every week and she looks good doing it.  I want to opposite of stab her.

I do my best to mirror her movements.  I’m sure I look the fool, but I try.  

Saturday, March 24, 2012

That little bitch already had a tattoo.  Part of you knew already.  That one time when you threatened about her getting one and she said, “What if I already have one?” and her eyes and smile were defiant yet jovial.  She was daring you and, short of ripping her clothes off, you knew.  But it was time to let her have her secrets, you thought, and your stomach made that ulcer feeling because of the truth of it.

We all are marked somehow.    

Monday, March 12, 2012

The class is all brown and all ladies except for the one old black man who is tall and has grey hair and looks like maybe he doesn’t know he is in a Zumba class.  He has this smile-stare that does not blink.  He wears a grey sweatsuit.  He shuffles his feet. 

I’m pretty sure his girlfriend brings him.  I think she’s the older lady that wears a white headband, and black tights under white Dolphin type shorts, 80’s style.  By the looks of her, she might’ve been my age back in the 80’s.  I hope when I am a senior citizen I am not doing Zumba.  I hope I am eating ice cream in my wheelchair being pushed around by one of my hot male servants named Clive.  (I will name them all Clive because it will be easier with my dementia.  I will have hot male servants because of how rich I will be one day because all of my best selling books will be optioned into movies.  The Clives will dust and rotate my Oscars.)

A new session has started so all the moves I suffered to learn and master are no longer.  Now I have to figure out new moves.  New songs.  The class is more crowded now.  Brown and black ladies.   And me.

We wear tights and sweatpants.

I like to make up names for some of the routines and for some of the moves.  In the last session there was this African sounding song where it had a lot of “praising the sun god” moves.  Or at least, that’s what I called the moves to the people that live in my head.  A lot of sweeping arm motions in the direction of the sun.  The African singers or chanters seemed like they were singing of how we should worship the day or worship the sun.  I am only assuming this.  I don’t speak a lick of African.   I just made this all up in my head whenever that song came on.

This new session has one song that I am finding myself calling, “The Private Parts  Song.”  The words are not in English.  Spanish maybe.  There is a sequence of moves where we 1) Put our hands on our asses. 2) move our hands in front of our vaginas  3) move our hands in front of our boobs.  During each of these moves we shake and move our hips.  In my head I'm counting, Ass....vagina....boobs...ass...vagina...boobs.  The Private Parts Song.

There’s another dance where we do a mock striptease.  A room full of ladies pretending to take off their shirts, wave them above their heads and throw them off to the side.  A room full of ladies, shimmying off their invisible panties, stepping out of them and kicking them away with one foot.  We touch ourselves seductively during this mock striptease.   I am laughing inside my head.  I do these moves with enthusiasm.  I look completely stupid and not at all sexy and I am so fine with that.  Me and 30 ladies mock naked and sweaty.

Like I said, it’s a brand new session.  These are the two songs that have moves that stick out to me right now.  Maybe in a week I can report back with any new move descriptions that have me laughing inside my head as I struggle like a fool to accomplish them.  Me, all my brown ladies and the black grandpa, shuffling his feet and smiling.  

Monday, March 5, 2012

A story at Used Furniture Review.

Nothing you can comprehend is how much I love everyone which makes the sense of nothing which is the coffee in my veins trying to reorganize how I need to be back in the world today.