What do you mean by that? How rude. Yes, me. Let me tell you something for free, my friend: my hips don’t lie! Shakira! Shakira! Shakira! Actually, they might lie a little bit. A fib, if you will.
Shakira? Isn’t she Colombian?
Is she? Oh. Okay then, watch me wiggle! Watch me shimmy! Watch me mambo! Watch me salsa! Watch me… TEAPOT!
Teapot? That doesn’t sound very Brazilian…
That’s what I thought. The instructor – high pitched and as mad as a block of stinky cheese – stood at the front barking the names of moves that we were expected to launch ourselves into. What with it being my first time, I was a bit crap to say the least. Whilst my fellow Zumba-ees responded perfectly as though they were in the North Korean army, I stood at the back looking semi-remorseful whilst doing my own personal Hokey-Cokey. I was good at the Teapot though (one hand on your hip, the other sticking out as though you’re a – gasp! – teapot). Although given Zumba’s Brazilian origins, I am extremely doubtful of the authenticity of this move. Y’know, I think crazy instructor woman made it up. When I visualise some toned hombre throwing down his best Zumba moves in the backstreets of Rio De Janerio, I am struggling with the idea of him shouting, ‘TEAPOT!’ before executing said move.
So it didn’t meet your expectations then?
No, not really. Not at all in fact. Perhaps my hopes were rather high. I thought I’d go in looking like a mildly embarrassed fat bloke and come out looking like Grace Jones or some lustful, toned Amazonian creature, complete with flower garland, tropical coloured feathers and don’t-eff-with-me Latino attitude.
And?
I still look like a mildly embarrassed fat bloke. And my ankle hurts. Damn that fucking Teapot!
Isn’t Zumba for fat middle aged women?
How narrow minded of you! However, it appears that this is indeed the case. I was the only bloke, which I think ruffled a few feathers. Given some of the dirty looks I got at the start, I think some of the women thought I might be there to perv at their wobbly bits flying about as though independent of their bodies. Er, no loves. Not me. Given the relative hostility coupled with my novice status, I thought it might be a good idea to stand at the back. Schoolboy error alert: this was the wrong thing to do if you wanted to keep a low profile as crazy instructor woman kept making us all turn around, effectively reversing the class so that the front became the back and the back – shock, horror, please don’t notice my love handles, etc – became the front. During these dark, hideous and frankly troubled times, I had to rely on mantra for life: when in doubt, shimmy. Which I did. A lot. Except for when I was Teapotting, obviously.
Oh dear. Still, I bet the music was good?
Hmmmm, not really. Again, I think my expectations got the better of me. You see, I was expecting to get my freak on to the sonic backdrop of, say, La Isla Bonita remixed with a heartily homosexual Euro beat. Or possibly a mash up of La Bamba with Geri Halliwell’s Mi Chico Latino with some ‘toot-toot’ disco whistles thrown in for good measure. Instead, what we got was song after song that sounded the same: a load of wailing men who sounded as though they were in agony. Or dying. Or both. And I don’t think the sound of banging saucepans with a wooden spoon counts as authentic Brazilian percussion-fare. Or maybe it does, I’ve never been, so I don’t know. I mean, Shakira doesn’t do it. Shakira! Shakira! Shakira!
I’ve already told you, she’s Colombian.
Oh yeah, sorry.
Do you think you’ll go again?
Only if they play Shakira.
Hmmm, doubtful.
Then no. Forget it.
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