No I didn’t go to work with my skirt tucked into my pants, or feel my hold ups slip to my ankles as I pounded the city streets (that was last week). No, this morning I tried Zumba.
Oh my God dear lovely Milk readers – it is absolutely amazing. I am so excited I feel like a 5-yr-old loaded up on e after a birthday party.
It’s a mixture of dance styles – latin, african, caribbean. It is as high-energy as a nun on steriods, as raucous as a donkey on heat, as embarrassing as pole dancing in front of your granddad. But my God is it liberating.
It reminds me of a time when I was travelling in Mexico and we’d decided to take a short, unscheduled hop across to Isla de Mujeres in Belize. An amazing place with a real laid-back caribbean feel. We’d ended up at a bar on the beach, 3 white girls attracting some attention. One particular smooth belizian man was coaxing me into dancing with him, hands on my hips guiding me this way and that. “Loosen’ up ladeee, feel the rytherm”. Let’s just say within 5 minutes he’d handed me back my drink. My european ass just didn’t move like he wanted it to. More cement than sweet syrup.
In any case, I’m sure this is exactly what I looked like this morning. A caucasian nerd with as much rythym as an ageing lab rat. In my head I was Shakeera, all snake hips and bouncing booty. To the mirror, a pole-dancing nun. More Asamoah Gyan than Justin Trousersnake.
20 years ago I would’ve run out of that gym covering my face with my hands and shouting “shame”, but now that I’m in my 30s, I embraced my inner dork with gusto.
Just be sure not to tell Dita that Milk’s on the prowl, there’s no saying what might happen.