Cardio Dance Blast

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Thoughts on Cardio Dance Blast: Originally Posted to FB 2017
First of all…let me just say this. I’m not a dancer. I never took dance as a child, for one thing because it is a sin (JUST KIDDING)…and for another thing because my parents were spending their money on things like food, mortgage, electricity etc. So like all things in life, you can blame your failures on your parents in just about any scenario….Thanks Ken and Susie.
Secondly, let me say this. I want to be a dancer. I want to be able to Move like Jagger…I want to be able to Move like Ginger Rogers…I want to be able to move like any dancer you can think of. But, alas, I do not move like any of these people. I move like Carlton. Maybe not even that well. Moving along.
Cardio. Dance. Blast. This would imply that we will get our heart rates up while dancing…and either it will be a blast, or something will explode. Hmmm.
Walk into class on a Sunday after noon. I think, surely it won’t be too crowded…but there stood 25 people in varying shapes and sizes. 23 women, 2 men. I wonder why on earth those 2 men are here but then I think I am being sexist and move along to wondering why I am here. I am wearing a tank top and spandex leggings…like every other woman in the class, thanks be to God neither male had this outfit on. I think I’m dressed appropriately, but then, I spot the instructor. She is in a tank top and very baggy sweatpants. Lets stop right here. People who dance in baggy pants look amazing. I don’t know why, but I’ve seen So You Think You Can Dance enough to know this and I am worried.
She asks, “Who is new?”. It is like being in church when they ask for visitors. Do you raise your hand or not? Does being new exclude me from something painful (like the church offering) or does she just want to know who to look at throughout the class to get a good laugh. I raise my hand. So does another lady. Then, baggy pants says “give me 3 tries”. You may hate this class the first time, but please come back…Seriously??? I may HATE it? HATE is strong. What are we about to do? I see a door to my right. A girl sees me and says to me “its not a back door, its a closet”. OK then…no escape route…great.
BaggyPants hits play and here we go. The first words across the sound system were: “Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy”. AWESOME. I have NEVER in my LIFE woken up feeling like P Diddy. I don’t know what he feels like in the morning, but I bet its not what I feel like. I am not a multimillionaire. I am going to work in a hospital. This is not what P Diddy feels like. I can not relate. Also, I have never brushed my teeth with Jack Daniels. (Third line of song) I have drunk Jack Daniels on many occasion…but never brushed my teeth with it. I brush my teeth with Crest. Again, do rock stars/musicians operate on a level completely out of the understanding of the real world. Kesha, what are you thinking?? Rapidly I tell myself to stop worrying about Kesha’s life choices and pay attention. Things are going on with Baggy Pants that I do not understand. My feet to do not move this fast…and my arms can not do something in the opposite direction of my feet. Also, I have identified a critical mistake. I chose the back R corner of the room. Those of you who have taken a new class have all done this. Only ONE person to your L can see you and you hope she isn’t Jane Fonda…but in a class of 25 people, I can’t see the instructor. I need to see her feet. WHERE ARE HER FEET? And please for the love of God turn around with your back to me so that I can tell whether my Left foot or Right foot should be moving. I can’t dance anyway, I certainly can not juxtapose the moves quick enough to keep up.
And so it went. On and on and on and on. Hip Hop song after Hip Hop song. Move after move. I could not keep up. Never did I get it right. I tried, oh did I try. I do not want to know what I looked like. It is bad enough in my imagination and I’m sure reality is even worse. I then realized yet another critical mistake. I did not wear a watch. I was really tired of concentrating…I realized what the BLAST part of class meant. It meant my head was going to explode in purple smoke like that commercial on TV. I don’t know what that commercial is selling, but all I could see was the top of my head blowing off in purple smoke. I wanted to stop. Not because I could’t breathe, but because I couldn’t think. All of the sudden, my brain STOPPED telling my feet what to do. STOPPED. But guess who didn’t stop…Baggy Pants, that’s who. I had no idea how much time was left, but my brain was done. I was suddenly happy with my decision to stay in the back of the class. I am here to tell you that I don’t think my feet did anything they were supposed to for what turned out to be the last 15 minutes of class.
And then…a slow song. And what I identified as stretch moves disguised into sort of dance moves. I can DO THIS!! YAY!! I stretch-danced my way through that last song in the class like Juliette Hough. And then, it was over.
Praise God. No one said anything to me. One girl literally GLARED at her friends who had apparently dragged her there under the false pretenses that “you can do this”.
I ambled out of the class and walked downstairs and out to my car like I had not just spent the last 60 minutes of my life looking utterly ridiculous.
Ginger Rogers, I’m coming for you.

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