I’ve been hitting Zumba classes with the girls three or four times a week for several months now. Yeah, my partner comes to class with me. And a little old man showed up for one of the Zumbathons. Otherwise, the only men around mostly crowd around the windows to watch.
I figured they were watching me and laughing. When I said so, my partner suggested they were more likely watching the women doing mildly suggestive dance moves. Oh. Another item for the list of things that wasn’t about me at all.
The guy who hooked me up with my gym membership came to Zumba last week. We’ve been teasing him about coming to Zumba for months. He adamantly insisted Zumba wasn’t for him. He came last week because he lost a bet with one of the other guys at the gym.
WTF??? The implication that one of my favorite activities was something one did after losing a bet pissed me off. The nerve! But he’s cute, has rhythm and could really move his hips, so I let it slide. I’m nice that way sometimes.
A young, semi-chubby Latino dude came to class on Sunday. He was good, too–knew all the steps and most of the complicated choreography. Of course I completely ignored him. Whippersnapper.
Monday night, he didn’t come but two new guys showed up. The short one came with his girlfriend. The monstrously tall guy came alone which I would assume is a regular thing for him. Though the short guy had some moves, the two of them just weren’t in my league. Practice, practice, practice.
I don’t know why all these guys are suddenly showing up for Zumba. Perhaps they’ve noticed my panther-like grace as I prowl around the gym in my cute Zumba clothes. It could be my sexy moves. Or maybe they see the girls fighting with each other for a spot near mine on the Zumba floor. I don’t know why they want to be me…just that they do.
I’d be fibbing if I said I wasn’t worried. For a while I felt threatened. But I realized that being me isn’t something you do. It’s something you are. You’ve either got it or you don’t. Nobody can do me the way I can. Nobody.
No wait…that didn’t come out right. You know I’d never go there. I meant nobody can act like me as well as I can.
Though I’ve got plenty of them, being Zumba King is not about my sexy moves. It’s not my kumbia, salsa, and merengue, or the way I drop down and hit the floor, my pumping, or my mastery of all but the most complex choreography. I am the Zumba King because deep down inside, it’s who I am. I’ve trained for this all my life. It’s my right!
I may never master the matrix, Cora’s strange six-count step, or snakes. It doesn’t matter. When the music starts, everyone knows I’m going to shake it like an overweight dirty girl in a cheap stripper joint. My hips gyrate in ways I never imagined. My body waves have significantly improved, I’ve nailed single single double shoulders–even my running man has improved.
And they can’t take that away from me. Yes, my crown, royal robe and scepter are gone. It’s a long story that ends with me being out a hundred bucks after a totally shit-faced body builder lost the costume at one of the sleazy bars downtown. I blame myself. Like I said, it’s a long story. The moral: no matter how cute he is, don’t lend anything you’re not trying to get rid of to a drunken frat boy. Trust me on this one.
I’m the same guy, with or without the royal trappings. There’s always a chance some young man will come to class and blow me out of the water. Hey. It could happen. But it’s okay because no matter what, I will always be the Zumba King here in…
My Glass House