The Rhythm in My Step

     It's a day after Passover and I don't feel like a pig.
 
      A pig wouldn't point its snout in the direction of Mediterranean flavored or whole wheat matzo, and certainly wouldn't partake of any cakes made with potato starch.  No, that was all me.  After ten holiday meals, I surrendered to it all.
      I don't know what I was thinking when I woke up this morning and stuffed myself into my exercise clothes, though it felt more like a wet suit after nearly ten days of being sedentary. 
  I walked into the studio reluctant to see how out of shape I was after a week of my cardio indifference.  I made it to the front row by default-I was actually in the second row and no one stood ahead of me.
      I looked at myself in my Supplex tights (made by Dupont, the company that also makes body armor for our military.  I am fighting a way different battle from our troops, doesn't make it any easier.) The only thing missing from this complete surrender to exercise was florescent lighting and magnifying mirrors.  That would have sent me-and probably every other Zumbie-screaming out into the streets.  But I stayed in place.  I wouldn't move.  And then the music began.

Me during Zumba.

     The downside to Zumba, is since it's my first time back in a few months, there's going to be new music.  New songs means new routines.  To psyche myself up, I pretend I'm a dancer going in to an audition.  First there's the stretching, then the encouraging and easy to follow warm up;   Everything is fine until the first girl yells"Wooh!"  -then they all break out into a dance I feel they've secretly created while I was throwing my sweatshirt into the corner of the room...and I am completely lost. 
     To save face and keep my heart rate up I jog in place and roll my eyes or smile.  As everyone else turns in complete synchronicity with the poise of professional water ballerinas, I flail my arms and side step as if to avoid drowning.
      If I were 20'something, this dance would have been over.  I would have faked an injury and walked out whimpering.  My cries only dulled by the screaming elastic of my underpants. I would have felt like crap, not even completed a workout, only proving the bad voice inside my head to be the victor. 

Feeling awesome by the end.

     In time, I've learned to dull that bitch. 
     I stayed, I sweat, I laughed at myself-I felt great afterwards.  Not bikini body, but not matza miserable.  I can't give any tips to avoid the over indulgence of the unleavened, but what I can say, and I do  believe is that EVERYONE feels the same way coming out of this holiday.
    Not only do I plan to stick to a schedule that includes regular exercise, I plan to drop a note in the suggestion box at Manischewitz.   If they plan to keep me as a patron, matzo boxes should include coupons for a month's worth of Zumba classes.....not gefilte fish. If they want my loyalty as a customer, they're gonna have to make me dance for it!

                                       My absolute favorite commercial-I'm the one in the sweats.