Driving over to the Isle of Palms I was behind a Chevy Cruze with the license plate “05 Lbs”. Clearly a sign the universe was laughing at me. Logically I knew out of context, this could mean anything. I considered following the car and beating the answer out of the driver with a tire iron, but I’d be late to class.
One of the things I’m enjoying most about Zumba are the comments before class. For example today. my classmate says,”Monday, we had 8 people from Ohio – a dad, mom and their 6 kids and friends”. “Wow,” I said, “those Ohio people really know how to have fun at the beach”. Or Saturday. “Are you in Dale’s Tango Class?” ‘Yes”. “How long have you been taking tango?” “About four years”. “How long would it take me to get the hang of it”, she asked? “About 20 minutes,” I said. I don’t think she likes me. I could tell cause she gave me that look. You know, that look. That look a woman gives you when she wants to find the rustiest chef’s knife she has in the kitchen, wrap it in barbed wire and give you a prostatocystectomy rectally. ( “prostatocystectomy (PROS-tuh-toh-sis-TEK-toh-mee) Surgery to remove the bladder and the prostate. In a radical prostatocystectomy, the seminal vesicles are also removed. Also called cystoprostatectomy ” http://www.mskcc.org/glossary/P/prostatocystectomy) Any guy who has a wife, girlfriend, daughter, mother or female coworker knows “that look”. I just thought you’d like to know how to pronounce the procedure.
(Disclaimer: All the women I’ve met in these classes are warm, friendly, positive, outgoing, lovely souls who have been very welcoming and charming. Any reference to my classmates are totally fictionalized and a function of hyperbole for the purposes of humor and any relationship to any reality herein is strictly no reference to anyone living or dead)
But there is a little bit of a Lord of the Flies vibe going on in there, but I haven’t put my finger on it yet. My estrogen meter hasn’t gone off the scale yet (you know, that little gland every man has in the base of his brain that tells him when the level of estrogen has reached life threatening levels in any room). You know, you’ve all seen it – a guy enters a room full of women at home, work wherever, and spins on his heels like he just realized he both won the lottery and is late for his first tryout at the Indianapolis 500. Yep, that’s right, his estrogen meter warning buzzer has gone off in his head and he realizes entering that room is taking his life in his hands. So, I’m just mentioning it because if my body is found anytime soon stuffed with every blade sold at William Sonoma, remember you read it here, it was the Zumbaronians.
Anyway, have been aware of some time about training at the maximum effective heart rate for weight loss so thought I’d pick up one of those heart rate watches this weekend and give that a try. Did that and am wearing it for class. First five min, good, heart rate shoots up to 186, which is on the high side so I figure I’ll cut back just a little. Go to check it a couple of minutes later and the watch explodes like a cheap firecracker overstuffed with gunpowder and a short fuse on a hot fourth of July. And they all turn around like, wow, the fat guy blew up a watch. Holy shit. I was thinking, “look at what’s left of the watch, not at me!”
I’d like to tell you after 8 Zumba classes, and two months of working out 5 days a week I have: 1. learned the foot moves; 2. learned the arm moves; 3. put 1 & 2 together; 3. lost 1 pound 4. my clothes fit better; 5. I have discovered this fountain of boundless energy but…. I got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Except this Blog. and some really hot new Nikes. (which make no difference in my Zumba-ing).
I can’t wait till the next class…..
“Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.” Bob Packwood.
Humor for the Horizontally ChallengedAll voodoo, is good voodoo.