My car took me on autopilot to Finagle-A-Bagel this morning instead of the gym. I could smell the everything toasted with scallion smear calling my name but thought better of it and headed over to Zumba instead. “My gym” is a term I use very loosely. The membership was given to me as a gift for my 40th and I feel obligated to at least try and pretend that I go on a regular basis. The upside is, I get to wear comfy yoga pants while eating bagels.
36-woman stand shoulder to shoulder in a sweaty room with skepticism written all over their faces. The goddess Zumba instructor that has created a cult like following, is being substituted today. Panic fills the air when in walks a 5’4 stick of Asian dynamite. He is dressed in bright red street dance pants with a tight white tank top (accentuating every muscle in his body) and patent leather high-tops. He cranks the music up so loud the windows vibrate. Between his accent and the volume, I can’t understand a word he is saying – I frantically elbow my way to the front.
He has decided to forgo the microphone system (gasp) and to face us instead of the mirror (double gasp) for the workout. He says it will be a little confusing but he has faith that we can do it. The first routine is a combination of rap, reggae and The River Dance. He claps his hands in the air and shouts, “Let’s hit it!” We are all jumping and bouncing off beat in the wrong direction. The regular clutch of white hairs are getting upset because the music is too loud. He bumps it up a notch. The energy is electric.
I overwork my moves in hopes of him making eye contact or at least giving me a shout out for being able to follow along. “Bap, Bap, Pa, Pa” we pick up the pace. He throws some tap steps in. This is familiar territory for me. I really try to show him what I am made of. My face is burning red. My heart is pounding. I think I just blew my kneecap out. This could be it; I might fall dead on the floor. It doesn’t matter – I am going out with a bang.
The class is on fire. We are doing moves that would put strippers to shame. Muffin tops, saggy breastfeeding tits, cottage cheese asses, and camel toes all hang out as we swing imaginary lassos overhead and spank ourselves while spinning in circles. He eggs us on. “Oh, yeah ladies. Looking good baby!” The entire room is salivating over a gay Chinese Zumba dancer. (*It doesn’t take much; this is an all women’s gym after all.) We are giggling like schoolgirls that are about to get laid at Prom.
The class ends reaffirming his sexual orientation and sends 36 desperate housewives home to masturbate on Valentine’s Day. You say, “Pop and Wok” I say, “Pop and Lock.” The language of love is universal. Thank you Mr. Lee for making today so special.by