I am not as active as I once was. Only teaching dance every once in awhile, no cheerleaders to coach, no gym membership. A decade ago I was teaching dance 20 hours every week. It was glorious and I was in the best shape of my life.
Oh how I miss my twenty year old thighs. Not that my thirty year old thighs are so terrible… But the years and the babies have definitely put their stamp on them.
A friend from years gone by invited me to Zumba, my favorite group exercise, and I was excited. I picked out my some cute leggings and a long tank.
I was looking cute.
Two hits off the inhaler before going in and I thought I was golden.
Ready to sweat. To get my groove back. Shorty fire burnin’ on the dance floor.
One song in, I peeled off my jacket.
Two songs in, I was warmed up and admiring my gently waving arms during a hula-ish combination.
Three songs in, I couldn’t feel my thighs.
I will NOT give up. I will NOT take a break. I am NOT this old. Or fat. I repeated “You can do it. You can do it.” over and over like I believed it. I cut back on the exuberance of my movements, not because I wanted to but because I couldn’t feel anything below my waist.
Fifty-five minutes later we finished the last song. I dropped to the floor like a sack of flour. Arms and legs splayed out, gasping for breath but unable to feel the benefit of the oxygen creeping into my lungs.
I felt like a beached star fish in tribal pants.
Gulp air in (1-2-3-4), blow out the candles (1-2-3-4).
During the cool-down song I was able to stretch a little and catch my breath. And I felt good.
I’ll be back next week, puffer in hand.