Sunday, August 29, 2010

The Wannabe Journal for August 2010

In her spare time Joy is working with a friend on a project to create humorous greeting cards.
He newest poem/literary creation is entitled: Zumba Gold or Hip Hop for Seniors
Hot Cross Buns
By Joy Brubaker

Today I went for my first class session of “Zumba Gold”, a kind of hip hop for the elderly. Julie, a retired teacher friend of mine, pressured me into going. The class was an AARP version of a Rave, but without the Ecstasy or sex. I had hoped to slip in and out of the class rather anonymously, but then I forgot and wore my big, bold red, all caps, JOY BRUBAKER FOR STATE REPRESENTATIVE tee shirt, so everything I did…well…represented.
The instructor, a nice enough septuagenarian, had lost her ‘apple” shape and now more resembled an olive on a toothpick with skinny withered arms and legs and a nice round middle, which happily she chose to show off with a cut-off top and low rider pants. Until that moment I hadn’t realized that anyone other than men and pregnant women had “happy trials.”
We started off rather well with Julie and the others putting enough energy into their cha cha cha’s and bell dancing moves to supply a small town with electricity. One of the moves which was especially nice resembled vigorously toweling off our buns, with shaking of said buns required. Three moves later and my cellulite was still trembling. Unfortunately, so was everyone else’s. I had the sled dog’s view from the rear of the class.
Regrettably, somewhere in the middle of the routine our instructor lost her way. Call it a senior moment, but what she told us were going to be doing changed two minutes into the first song when she clearly forgot the steps and fumbled to get back into the rhythm. The rest of us were left free styling with arms, legs, derrieres and feet all going in different directions. At best we rather looked like a kindergarten class learning the hokey-pokey.
By the end of the third song two of the other women quit and hobbled out stiffly holding their lower back. I couldn’t. I had the stupid tee shirt on; she knew my name. I had to struggle through the rest of the hour swearing I wouldn’t subject myself to unhealthy golden age peer pressure ever again.
There is something to be said for enrolling in a class of younger women. It’s the fantasy factor. Sure, I can’t keep up, but I can envision myself as maladroit. On the other hand, when everyone around me is estrogen depleted and sagging, and worse, the instructor is the model of what I’m aiming for, it’s just depressing.
I don’t know what I was thinking anyway. My first clue should have been when one of these women passed out in the middle of “total body conditioning gold” the week before, got a nasty bump on her head from the hardwood floor when she went down, and lots and lots of sympathy from the rest of us.
So… how was your day?

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