My mother was a really good dancer. Unfortunately, I was a typical kid and every time she’d bust into a move (although this was before people actually busted a move …) I’d get embarrassed – for her? for me? – and tell her stop. OMG. Seriously, it’s so literally mortifying when your mom dances if you’re a teenager. OMG.
I’m so sorry, Mom. So sorry.
Anyway, I’m older than than she was then, and in a couple of weeks I’ll be deep into a training workshop to teach a dance-based group exercise class. I’ve taught Zumba for years and have earned almost a dozen different certifications, but this class has official choreography — the kind of choreography I avoided in my Zumba class. You know, hip-hop and club dancing, music-video-inspired routines. The t-word (coughtwerkcough) is even used in the instructional video. I feel, let’s face it, kind of old for this.
My mom danced even though I begged her not to (note: I did eventually grow out of that phase). She used to be able to do a twist on one foot, all the way to the floor. She ignored me telling her she shouldn’t do that.
I’m going to ignore me telling myself that same thing. It’s good to do scary things, it’s good to get nervous. It keeps you sharp. And plus, the funky dances look a lot more fun than spending 45 minutes on the treadmill, so I think my gym’s members will enjoy it.
I’ll let you know how it goes, and how my lower back handles all this t-word business.