Zumba
You may be forgiven for wanting to hide at the back of a Zumba class – but in reality it’s not such a good idea. Especially if the Zumba class is packed because it is being led by a sexy little lady going by the name of Rosie who just happens to be half Brazilian and gyrates to the beat of a mambo drum ten times faster than any of us can ever dream of mustering. Rumour has it that the manager of the gym went down on bended knees and begged Rosie to give Zumba lessons at our club. She’s so popular and is in seriously hot demand the length and breadth of The Middle so that we in Sportoase are seriously privileged to have the likes of Rosie teach us Zumba. Guess our manager has a lot of charm because Rosie now comes at least three times a week and her classes are booked out weeks in advance. I was amazed, therefore, that there was still a spot available in Rosie’s’ class on Tuesday evening from 19.30 to 20.30.
Not sure if any of you have heard of Zumba. It really is the latest craze in the world of fitness. I know, it’s so sad to write about fitness crazes – have any of you seen the film “Perfect” with John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis where Travolta plays a Rolling Stone journalist who completely trashes the world of fitness gyms in the early 1980’s? It’s a great film. As a result whenever I talk about the gym I feel just a tad sad. Still I enjoy working out at the gym ... and so I shall recount my Zumba experiences.
Zumba, the absolute latest in gym-speak, hit our consciousness here in The Middle a few months ago. Even K.M. had heard of it and began showing me how to swing the hips sideways whilst waving arms high in the air. “They were showing it on KetNet Mummy,” she told me. “You must go – it comes from Brazil.”
In fact before Rosie’s class on Tuesday I had actually been to one Zumba class given by Ann. I was amazed to find that Zumba was nothing more than a Latin American work-out. Amazing what marketing and re-branding does – it creates a whole knew concept out of what is already bog standard and pretty well known. I quite enjoyed Ann’s class though. The music is fun and the moves great. But Ann is not Rosie. I just had to try out Zumba with Rosie at her Tuesday evening class.
Anyway, coming back to this hiding at the back of the class business. I know it’s a bad idea because I did just this on Tuesday evening. I arrived five minutes late and the class was already in full Zumba swing when I came in. Before I had even performed a neat little Meringue or punched my fist in the air with Latin American zeal I could feel the sweat forming in between my shoulder blades. The heat in the airless room from all the dancers was overwhelming. I’ve never seen a class so full. This suited me fine. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to stand at the front. Not in Rosie’s class.
It didn’t take me long to realise though that trying to be unobtrusive was a mistake. From where I was standing I couldn’t see what I was supposed to do. Above the top of other people’s head I could see Rosie up on the podium giving a fantastic performance. The girl can dance – just like in all those promotional Zumba video’s we’ve seen over the past couple of months. No doubting that Rosie is straight-up the real thing, she’s the McCoy alright with her long dark hair, amazingly toned Latino body, friendly grin and dance moves – but she is half Brazilian and has a huge advantage over the rest of us cold blooded northerners.
There is some family talk that great Grandmother Isabella Garnett née Brown was half Spanish because she too had long dark hair that, in the old sepia photo we have of her, she wears high in Spanish combs. She was born on a boat off the coast of Galway when her father, get this John Brown, was on his way to India. No one rally knows the name of her mother other than that it too was Isabella. So perhaps, just perhaps there is some kind of family Spanish connection going way back when – not that any of it has been passed down to me. No Sir. I look as though I was born to Morris Dance.
Give me a couple of sticks, tie a few bells around the ankles and I might just be able to kick my knee into the air with some authenticity. Sadly, am not sure I can cha-cha-cha with any great authenticity. I look around the heaving room. Ninety percent of the dancers look like me, not quite Morris Dancers but certainly NOT Latin-blooded lovers either. Involuntarily I think of Breughel. Scenes of jolly outdoor feasts come to mind with frothy beer spilling out of huge tankards and onto wooden trestle tables and plump breast spilling out of tight lace corsets. OK, so if one follows the logic that I was built to Morris Dance then surely the locals were meant to clog dance. There you have it. Our heritage: Morris Dancing and Clog tapping. All a million miles away from the cha-cha-cha and mambo. Can we overcome our heritage though and move beyond Morris/clog dancing I wonder?
Since I’m not really following Rosie I follow what her audience are doing. Most of them are giving it their all. Some look great, other’s look confused, most of us look like clog/Morris dancers. Well who wouldn’t when Rosie is standing on the stage looking like she’s just sashayed out of the Coco Cabana. The other’s seem to know the dance moves by now and unlike me are able to mimic, if not quite replicate, Rosie’s routine. As soon as one song finishes there’s spontaneous applause and then everyone, led by Rosie, launches themselves into the next Zumba jive. Rosie is giving it her all as though she’s performing for the Brazilian football team before the opening of the World Cup Final against Germany. Or perhaps she’s performing for Ronaldo – or perhaps just for us. She grins friendly at the class and encourages us all on to greater mambo heights.
Perhaps she is unaware that some of us are not following. She doesn’t bark out any instructions at us such as: meringue left foot; meringue side-ways; forwards; back-wards; four-step forwards; wave the arms up, wave the arms down; cha-cha-cha – one, two three. After the third dance I give up and decide to leave. I weave my way through the room and all the dancers doing their four-steps arms held high and waving to the beat.
Yesterday I went back to Ann’s class. I like her. She looks more like us: a clog dancer with a sweat band who knows the steps and shouts them out to us. The room is full but not as packed as Rosie’s so at least we can breath. I stand at the front. This way I can watch the moves closely. I get a good workout and feel well trained at the end of it. At one point I look at myself in the mirror doing a cha-cha-cha and think I see a faint glimpse of Isabella Garnett as I gyrate my hips. In Ann’s class I can just about believe that it is possible for me to move beyond Morris Dancing. With Rosie I just look like a lost cause.
In other news: J., who turned eleven yesterday (yes eleven!) is still football crazy. G. is delighted. I am resigned. We are both thrilled that J. is enjoying playing foot-ball. He’s a lot less “icky” then he used to be and has, almost, abandoned the shrill shrieking and yelling he so favoured. Training twice a week and playing football on Saturdays releases all his energy. This is fantastic. Am seriously concerned now that the football season has stopped and he won’t have anything to do until August. I have to get used to the fact though that most Wednesday’s are now foot-ball night. Reluctantly I vacate the lounge and find comfort in our bedroom in order to escape the sound of endless football commentaries. Motherhood is all about sacrifice and I have accepted that I have to sacrifice part of this household to football. Luckily G. enjoys talking footie to J. and so the names of Lampard; Ballack; and Rooney are seeping into my consciousness.
K.M and L. have their big ballet show this week-end. Mum is coming by train today for the week-end to watch them. They have been preparing for it twice a week since November. The girls are delighted. L. told me she will be wearing glitter in her hair so can we please not wash it on Sunday so that she can show it off to her friends on Monday morning. Can’t wait to see it. Before you all think I discriminate – I also enjoy watching J. play football on Saturday when I have the time.
Grass is growing brilliantly. Still have one or two dodgy patches. Only one more week and then I think we’ll let the kids loose on the lawn. No need to worry anymore about flowers being trampled to oblivion. They’ve all gone.
Not sure if any of you have heard of Zumba. It really is the latest craze in the world of fitness. I know, it’s so sad to write about fitness crazes – have any of you seen the film “Perfect” with John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis where Travolta plays a Rolling Stone journalist who completely trashes the world of fitness gyms in the early 1980’s? It’s a great film. As a result whenever I talk about the gym I feel just a tad sad. Still I enjoy working out at the gym ... and so I shall recount my Zumba experiences.
Zumba, the absolute latest in gym-speak, hit our consciousness here in The Middle a few months ago. Even K.M. had heard of it and began showing me how to swing the hips sideways whilst waving arms high in the air. “They were showing it on KetNet Mummy,” she told me. “You must go – it comes from Brazil.”
In fact before Rosie’s class on Tuesday I had actually been to one Zumba class given by Ann. I was amazed to find that Zumba was nothing more than a Latin American work-out. Amazing what marketing and re-branding does – it creates a whole knew concept out of what is already bog standard and pretty well known. I quite enjoyed Ann’s class though. The music is fun and the moves great. But Ann is not Rosie. I just had to try out Zumba with Rosie at her Tuesday evening class.
Anyway, coming back to this hiding at the back of the class business. I know it’s a bad idea because I did just this on Tuesday evening. I arrived five minutes late and the class was already in full Zumba swing when I came in. Before I had even performed a neat little Meringue or punched my fist in the air with Latin American zeal I could feel the sweat forming in between my shoulder blades. The heat in the airless room from all the dancers was overwhelming. I’ve never seen a class so full. This suited me fine. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to stand at the front. Not in Rosie’s class.
It didn’t take me long to realise though that trying to be unobtrusive was a mistake. From where I was standing I couldn’t see what I was supposed to do. Above the top of other people’s head I could see Rosie up on the podium giving a fantastic performance. The girl can dance – just like in all those promotional Zumba video’s we’ve seen over the past couple of months. No doubting that Rosie is straight-up the real thing, she’s the McCoy alright with her long dark hair, amazingly toned Latino body, friendly grin and dance moves – but she is half Brazilian and has a huge advantage over the rest of us cold blooded northerners.
There is some family talk that great Grandmother Isabella Garnett née Brown was half Spanish because she too had long dark hair that, in the old sepia photo we have of her, she wears high in Spanish combs. She was born on a boat off the coast of Galway when her father, get this John Brown, was on his way to India. No one rally knows the name of her mother other than that it too was Isabella. So perhaps, just perhaps there is some kind of family Spanish connection going way back when – not that any of it has been passed down to me. No Sir. I look as though I was born to Morris Dance.
Give me a couple of sticks, tie a few bells around the ankles and I might just be able to kick my knee into the air with some authenticity. Sadly, am not sure I can cha-cha-cha with any great authenticity. I look around the heaving room. Ninety percent of the dancers look like me, not quite Morris Dancers but certainly NOT Latin-blooded lovers either. Involuntarily I think of Breughel. Scenes of jolly outdoor feasts come to mind with frothy beer spilling out of huge tankards and onto wooden trestle tables and plump breast spilling out of tight lace corsets. OK, so if one follows the logic that I was built to Morris Dance then surely the locals were meant to clog dance. There you have it. Our heritage: Morris Dancing and Clog tapping. All a million miles away from the cha-cha-cha and mambo. Can we overcome our heritage though and move beyond Morris/clog dancing I wonder?
Since I’m not really following Rosie I follow what her audience are doing. Most of them are giving it their all. Some look great, other’s look confused, most of us look like clog/Morris dancers. Well who wouldn’t when Rosie is standing on the stage looking like she’s just sashayed out of the Coco Cabana. The other’s seem to know the dance moves by now and unlike me are able to mimic, if not quite replicate, Rosie’s routine. As soon as one song finishes there’s spontaneous applause and then everyone, led by Rosie, launches themselves into the next Zumba jive. Rosie is giving it her all as though she’s performing for the Brazilian football team before the opening of the World Cup Final against Germany. Or perhaps she’s performing for Ronaldo – or perhaps just for us. She grins friendly at the class and encourages us all on to greater mambo heights.
Perhaps she is unaware that some of us are not following. She doesn’t bark out any instructions at us such as: meringue left foot; meringue side-ways; forwards; back-wards; four-step forwards; wave the arms up, wave the arms down; cha-cha-cha – one, two three. After the third dance I give up and decide to leave. I weave my way through the room and all the dancers doing their four-steps arms held high and waving to the beat.
Yesterday I went back to Ann’s class. I like her. She looks more like us: a clog dancer with a sweat band who knows the steps and shouts them out to us. The room is full but not as packed as Rosie’s so at least we can breath. I stand at the front. This way I can watch the moves closely. I get a good workout and feel well trained at the end of it. At one point I look at myself in the mirror doing a cha-cha-cha and think I see a faint glimpse of Isabella Garnett as I gyrate my hips. In Ann’s class I can just about believe that it is possible for me to move beyond Morris Dancing. With Rosie I just look like a lost cause.
In other news: J., who turned eleven yesterday (yes eleven!) is still football crazy. G. is delighted. I am resigned. We are both thrilled that J. is enjoying playing foot-ball. He’s a lot less “icky” then he used to be and has, almost, abandoned the shrill shrieking and yelling he so favoured. Training twice a week and playing football on Saturdays releases all his energy. This is fantastic. Am seriously concerned now that the football season has stopped and he won’t have anything to do until August. I have to get used to the fact though that most Wednesday’s are now foot-ball night. Reluctantly I vacate the lounge and find comfort in our bedroom in order to escape the sound of endless football commentaries. Motherhood is all about sacrifice and I have accepted that I have to sacrifice part of this household to football. Luckily G. enjoys talking footie to J. and so the names of Lampard; Ballack; and Rooney are seeping into my consciousness.
K.M and L. have their big ballet show this week-end. Mum is coming by train today for the week-end to watch them. They have been preparing for it twice a week since November. The girls are delighted. L. told me she will be wearing glitter in her hair so can we please not wash it on Sunday so that she can show it off to her friends on Monday morning. Can’t wait to see it. Before you all think I discriminate – I also enjoy watching J. play football on Saturday when I have the time.
Grass is growing brilliantly. Still have one or two dodgy patches. Only one more week and then I think we’ll let the kids loose on the lawn. No need to worry anymore about flowers being trampled to oblivion. They’ve all gone.
posted by Kathleen at 2:34 AM
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