Come on Everybody Let’s do the Samba

When Hubby and I were laid-off, one of our first concerns was staying healthy. We didn’t want to end up as couch potatoes eating countless bags of chips all day while watching TV talk shows focused on Baby Mama Drama. Tempting, I know. Who doesn’t want to watch strangers air their dirty laundry?

Hubby focused on exercise like he was training for the Olympics. A fan of the at-home exercise DVD, he would sweat out daily workouts with the dog. Well, Hubby did all the sweating. The dog played the role of the coach. Similarly, when I was laid-off I took advantage of the daytime classes offered at the gym. It was a great way to break the monotony of searching for a job. Besides, I wanted to see who all these people were who could spend the day at the gym.

Now that we are both working again our exercise routines have slipped. Combine that with the fact that our favorite yoga instructor decided to take a dream job teaching at a spa in Costa Rica (hard to believe, I know), and we are finding it difficult to stay motivated.

While searching for alternative ways to exercise, I stumbled upon a dance studio that included classes for adults – that don’t involve a pole. Perfect, I thought! I used to be a dancer; this is just what I need to jump start my exercise program. Scanning the options, it was hard to choose. There’s Zumba, but I had done that before and was not impressed. Hip Hop sounded fun but I had a schedule conflict; even Bollywood sounded interesting. But it was the Samba class that spoke to me, calling my name. I imagined picking up the steps easily, my body becoming toned with abs of steel like the pros on Dancing with the Stars. Yep, that was the class for me.

I showed up a bit early and the instructor asked if I was ready for this. “It’s going to be difficult since this is your first class. Are you sure you are ready?” she said. What? Who does she think I am? Of course I’m ready! “Bring it!” I boldly stated.

I took a place in the back of the room, not wanting to show off too much. After all, these younger women may not have had the same dance training that I had many years ago. The music started and a gentleman with beautiful long hair that most women would envy instantly began an aerobics routine that was high-impact on steroids. No problem, I thought. I can do this, although it’s not exactly dancing.

Suddenly the music changed and without any instruction everyone began wildly dancing to certain eight count combinations. Didn’t matter if they were eight or sixteen count to me; I was just trying to watch the instructors’ feet to figure out what to do. And silly me; I was thinking Samba as seen on DWTS, more of a ballroom dance. This was Samba for single people who are regulars on the club scene, dancing until the wee hours and still getting up in time for work.

The guy with the pretty hair stopped and the woman instructor started. Not fair, I thought! They get to tag-team and take a break from the frenetic pace of this so-called dance. Still believing in myself I moved my hips, feet, arms and legs as fast as possible, actually keeping up with the class. You’ve still got it girl, I thought to myself. Never mind that the only word I could understand through their thick accents was “Samba”; I had figured out that this word was the signal to move your feet faster than the speed of light. Not sure if I was actually doing the right steps but I was moving.

Just as I was beginning to get the hang of the dance and shaking everything I’ve got, I felt a “snap” under my shirt. Hmmm, wonder what that was? I kept dancing and moving and shaking, until I realized that my bra had snapped and I was indeed shaking all over. Mortified, I Samba’d my way off the dance floor, searching for a bathroom to try and remedy the situation.

Back on the dance floor I continued to move and shake and shimmy while hoping my bra held up. Finally the music stopped. Every cheered “Samba” and I was invigorated from this class. Who am I kidding? I was exhausted, drenched in sweat and my face was the color of a lobster. My hair was so wet I looked as though I’d taken a swimming class instead.

“Are you staying for the next class?” the instructor asked. “Uh, maybe not this time,” I stammered and I tried to steady myself enough to walk. Once home, Hubby looked up as I came through the door. Noticing my red face and drenched hair, he asked “How was the class? Looks like it was a good workout.”

Little does he know, huh? I challenged him to try the class and see if he could move and shake like the guy with the long hair. Hubby didn’t say a word. He knew better. And he also knew that he would have to help me out of bed the next morning so I could Samba my way into work.

It’s hard to stay in shape, isn’t it?