Oh yeah, I got moves like Mick Juggler -

I enrolled in a jazzercise class a month or so ago.  I wanted to get my inner dancer out of the attic.  It has been thirty years since I have danced with my Fil-Am dance troupe and during that time, I was limber and definitely nimble.  I decided to go back to revisit my “performing arts” past and jazzercise offered an opportunity to see if I can still tell my left from my right.  I also want to have some workout while pretending to dance so I thought jazzercise would be it for me.  I have two instructors, both of whom are good. They alternate teaching the class. 

I prefer the older instructor named Kate; she is graceful and mellow and I like that she is fifty-something. She understands my body and mind’s limitations.  My body is limited by the movement it can make without having to take Ibuprofen while the mind is limited by my ability to focus and contain my attention deficit disorder. Furthermore, I have an unbearable inability to stop myself from grinning silly through the misery of figuring out what I should be doing!  Kate is patient and will actually show in slow motion what her feet are doing.

The younger instructor, Abigail  is the type that downs five energy bars and a large double espresso for breakfast. She is flying off the floor and bouncing off the wall.  She talks to no one and she asks hypothetical questions like “Oh yeah,  this is a great song, right?”  “I am over you! Oh yeah! It is going to be a great day, RIGHT???,” If one of the ladies answers, she ignores her.  I do not bother having any interaction. I am always too busy being amused by the whole thing.  She will be screaming into her portable mike, like we are all wearing hearing aids.  Then she does a move that only she and J.Lo can do and we all scramble to follow. Then she yells, "Ok, for those who want to do low impact, you just march in place! Step, step, step!” The  majority of the class start marching like soldiers from Korea. Some from the North and the others from the South, and as we march, we watch Abigail do her amazing footwork. We wait for our brains to communicate to our feet to do whatever it can do on their own.  And we actually pay money to do this for an hour every Sunday.

For some reason, I ended up working out next to a “Real Housewife of Chevy Chase, MD”.  She wears the skin tight work out outfits. None of those elastic waistline shorts worn with a shirt that says "I am not Dead Yet"  over an old pair of leggings.  She has lips that have been supersized with collagen shots, she looks like a trout; her hairline is high from her Joan Rivers, and her botoxed eyebrows arch like twin  rainbows.  She looks like she is eternally shocked.  I cannot keep my peripheral vision off this lady, not because of her looks but because she "weirds" me, as the Generation millenium would say. 

To wit, whenever we are doing a tango move, she would be doing a cha-cha-cha.  So if the instructor would call out a plié, the trout would be hopping up and down with her buttock sticking out and up in the process while she shouts “Whoa!”  We would do a chase and she would be lifting her weights in place while yelling, “Wohoo!”  Go figure. She honestly has this aura that she is the hottest gal in the class.  That should make me feel good to be in her perimeter--I can use some radiation of hotness.  The Paris Hilton type. 

This last weekend in particular, I am sure she had been watching the Olympics because, I kid you not, when we did our floor exercises, she was doing a split. She did this while she looked bored at us mortals around her, like she was surprised that she was the only one doing a split. I on the other hand, next to this split trout, felt like a dejected Mustafania something or other--you know, the sullen looking Russian gymnast who was bested by Gabby Douglas. 

Then, Abigail, bouncing off the floor, kept hopping like a battery operated bunny, turning the music volume up, talking to no one in particular, her eyes never meeting ours but egging us on, “Y’all look hot ladies!  You should see yourself from where I am! Whoa! Do it, and four, three, two, one! Come on!! This is from Rock of the Ages and you... are... looking hot!!”

SERIOUSLY?

Listen Abigail, you are bullshitting.  I love you!  Because the truth is there are about 15 women having hot flashes, A-D-D, and bone loss in this class.  I have an idea of what you are seeing:

A trout doing a split on the yoga mat; the tall skinny lady who wears a Forever 21 short shorts but could not follow any of the steps, she makes Kate Gossling look like a prima ballerina; the older lady who is hard of hearing, asking me, “Did it say we move like milk juggler-- what?” Oh dear Gawd.  “No, 'it is moves like Jagger. Mick Jagger.”'  “Ooooh…,” or the lady who strikes  yoga poses instead when we do our mat exercises then holds a full conversation with the trout; and the young dynamo who gets all the moves but seems out of place until one realizes she is the teacher’s assistant. Then there’s me, with a smile plastered on my face because of the dark comedy I am now a part of, and loving it. 

And, oh yeah, oh yeah,  I got moves like Mick Juggler!!

stock photos www, accessed 08/06/12