Breaking a Sweat: Zumba with a side of Kung Pao

I actually went to the base gym last week … twice.

Now, that may not seem like much to you Spandex-ensconsed gym rats with your fancy headphones, overpriced shoes, BPA-free coconut-water bottles, and your level ten treadmill settings. But to me, someone who used mild knee pain as an excuse to take a year-long break from all forms of exercise, this accomplishment is nothing short of a miracle.

Les Mills, eat your heart out.

It hasn’t easy been showing up at the gym after such a long and unexplained hiatus. I knew my presence would be perceived as a half-hearted attempt at a New Year’s resolution, most likely to fizzle before the first week of February. I gave myself a little pep talk in the parking lot. “Just parade in there like you own the place. For all they know, you’ve been running marathons and playing rugby for the past year.”

“Yeah, what do THEY know, “ I assured myself.

Approaching the front desk, I swiftly flashed my military ID hoping no one would see me before I darted off to Zumba class.

“Is that you, Mrs. Molinari?!” Nick, one of the gym staff called from behind the desk. His intonation and use of “Mrs.” notified everyone within earshot that some old lady who hasn’t been to the gym in a long time finally showed up. After chatting with Nick, I slinked off to class.

Zumba is truly inspirational.

So inspirational in fact, that I’ve written about both Zumba classes I’ve shown up to — one column I wrote back in 2012 while stationed in Florida was entitled “My hips don’t swing that way, but my stomach does,” and presented the scientific hypothesis that humans, like toilet bowl water, can only swirl in one direction, depending on their location on Earth’s hemispheres. The second column you’re reading today.

Expecting to see the room packed with 20-something hard-bodies that would send me into a tailspin of insecurity, I was relieved to find a comforting mix of people, all with their share of bodily imperfections and jiggly bits. After a short introduction that I forgot to listen to, the instructor hit a button on the sound system and began gyrating to Latin and African beats.

Much like the last time I tried Zumba, I thought it looked easy. “It’s just dancing … how hard could it be?”

But then, I always seem to forget that my husband and I have botched the Electric Slide at every military ball, holiday party, and wedding since our own reception in 1993. Same goes for the Cha Cha Slide, the Macarena, and the Cupid Shuffle. Call us choreographically challenged, we couldn’t Whip, Nae Nae or Stanky Leg if our lives depended on it.

I tried to mimic our limber instructor as she swiveled back and forth across the room, but all I could muster were a few awkward hops, several misplaced kick-ball-changes, a couple of inappropriate pelvic thrusts, and my own freestyle version of the pony.

I was pretty hopeless.

Despite my alarming heart rate, I only sported a small sweat mustache when the 45 minute class was over. Rather than exercise more, I thought a hop in the sauna would wake my hibernating glands. But then, I made the fatal mistake of following up the sauna with a scalding hot shower, opening veritable flood gates of profuse sweat that didn’t ease up until mid-afternoon.

Next week, I’m going to try Spinning, and maybe Yoga the week after that. I might bounce off the bike like a fool or splat on the mat like an idiot, but what’s important is that I keep showing up at the gym.

However, the next time I want to break a heavier sweat, I’ll just stick with Kung Pao Chicken.