Zumba tried to kill me. (But my family didn’t help much either.)


So I went to my first ever Zumba class yesterday.

I know, I know. I’m behind the times. Zumba has been popular for the last 10-15 years. But I am slow.

A fact that was driven home to me most forcefully during a high-energy exercise class with about fifty women in a mirrored room. I looked at my scared, stumbling, red-faced reflection and thought, Girl, you are SLOW.

But it’s okay. A kind Amazon woman next to me helped as much as she could, calling out LEFT! and RIGHT! and TURN!!!! I know she was thinking , This sad slow white girl is gonna die right beside me.

(By the way, I use the term Amazon in the most complimentary way possible. This lady was over six feet tall: dreadlocked, bejewled and gorgeous.)

When we finally got to the cool-down phase my Amazonian friend said, “You made it!” I think she was almost as  surprised as I was.

I took a picture outside the gym, and in my addled-by-exhaustion state, I posted it to facebook. This may be the most unflattering selfie ever, but it’s gotten more “likes” than any other picture I’ve posted.


When I got home, all I wanted to do was take a shower and lie down. But of course, it didn’t work out that way.

As soon as I walked in from the garage, I saw my husband’s work pants sitting on top of the washing machine. (Code for, “I need these pants washed by tomorrow.”)  

Slowly I moved clean clothes from the dryer to the basket, wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, and put the pants in the washer along with any other dirty things lying around on the laundry room floor. My muscles groaned every time I bent over. I threw in soap and switched on both machines.

I shuffled out of the laundry room. I wanted to go straight up to my room. But I looked at the living room. Dirty dishes covered the coffee table. (I knew this was code for, “No one has done anything in the kitchen all night except eat and make a mess.”)

So I forced my legs to walk. I collected all the plates and took them to the sink. Unsurprised, I surveyed the leftover food (which I’d cooked before I left) spread all over the counter. Slowly, slowly, I bent to get out the tupperware and put everything away.

One of the twins yelled from upstairs, “Mommy! Are you home? Mommy!?” 

I stowed the food in the fridge and stacked the dishes in the sink. The other twin began yelling for me as well.  I started crawling up the stairs to put the twins to bed.

Now, let me point out that their father was with them. He made sure they’d had their baths and were ready for bed. But apparently, as soon as Mommy enters the area, Daddy is absolved of all kid responsibility by their mutual agreement. Even when Mommy feels on the brink of death.

After the twins were finally in bed, I told my husband that I was going to take a shower and then lie on my bed and die.

GG poked her head out of her room. “Before you die, Mom,” she said. “Can you make my bed up?”

It is amazing, the sympathy these people have for me.

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