OK, I didn’t actually die, but at one point, it was on the cards.
I’ve been going to Zumba for two months now – one class a week for five weeks, and then two classes a week for the last three weeks. I love it. I’ve even managed to drag along my best friend and now she loves it. I’ve even made a Zumba playlist on YouTube so I can do it at home!
My name is Kate, and I’m a Zumba twat.
I know a lot of the songs we do in each class now, know the moves, even get some of them right, and thought that it would be a good idea to perhaps add a third class to my weekly exercise routine.
What a stupid idea that was.
I did some research and found another class that runs on a Wednesday night at my old school (the school Dexter goes to) – casually mentioned it to my best friend Jo, hoping against all hope that she’d think it was ridiculous to up our classes to three a week.
“Fancy trying that new class?” she said. “It’ll be fun,” she said.
Look at that face above and tell me that class was fun.
OK, actually it was … in a sadistic, I’ve actually just died, kinda way. The warning sign was there though. As I waited for Jo to turn up (she’d gone to the completely wrong place and I was waiting for her outside in the bastard rain because I’d cycled there), the instructor came out to ask why the hell I was pacing up and down in the rain like a demented, helmet-wearing loon.
“Oh I’m just waiting for my friend, she’s a bit lost.”
“Hmmmm, right. So, have you been to a Zumba class before?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said, dead cocky. “I’ve actually been going for a whole two months you know.”
She smiled wryly. “Whose class do you go to?”
I told her. “Ummm, Linda’s class tends to be a little bit …. moderate. Perhaps more easy going than mine. But try your best to keep up. You’ll be allowed some water every three songs.”
What? I’m not even allowed to stop for water?!!
What had we let ourselves in for?
The warm-up began. So far so good. And then the warm-up became harder, and then harder until it felt like the hardest dance in our usual class. The warm-up. Nearly. Killed. Us. Death. By. Zumba.
But we persevered and although the dances got harder and more high impact, we surprised ourselves by keeping up. It might not have been pretty (I certainly wasn’t at the end of it), but we didn’t embarrass ourselves.
We did it. The whole class, without stopping.
It’s testament to how much fitter I am these days, the fact I actually got through such a hard class (and enjoyed it) and I came away on a high. As I’d stupidly decided to cycle, I then had to cycle home of course. Uphill. But even that didn’t dampen my spirits, even though the rain did. I was on a high.
So we’re going to swap one of our usual classes for this new, harder class … in fact, we might swap two of them, because it’s really important to keep challenging yourself. Even at 45. In fact, especially at 45.
I hate being put in a box because of my age. Men on dating sites do it all the time and it really grinds my gears. Why can’t I dance my ass of on a damp Wednesday night? Why can’t I run a marathon? Do a triathlon … climb a mountain. 45 is just a number. Like 18, or 79. I refuse to be defined by it.
The fitter and thinner I get, the more I want to challenge myself. I feel like I’ve wasted so many years already – in bad relationships, being overweight and unhappy, and I’m not going to do it any more.
So I need ideas for even more challenges! Someone mentioned the Pretty Mudder (5K muddy obstacle race), but I’ve just missed out on that as it was last weekend. But I’m up for most things (but I won’t do that.)
Keep the ideas coming! I’m off for a rub down with a hot loofah.