So this morning I went to Zumba!!
With the help of ‘Shrinkology’ – the book by Louise Atkinson and Dr Meg Arroll – and some 1-1 sessions with Dr Meg, I am finally starting to tackle the menopausal midriff.
I am about to get to that milestone of losing the first stone. So I decided it was time to up the exercise. I hate the gym but love Strictly Come Dancing – so felt a bit of grooving to some great tunes would be a good way forward.
So I rocked up alone hoping for some friendly faces. I was faced with some very young beautiful slim snowflake faces with lovely bright dancing outfits on that contrasted to my black t shirt and leggings combo. ‘Should I just bugger off now’ I think to myself. But then I remember my 2019 motto – if there is a choice between sitting it out and dancing – always choose dancing…literally and metaphorically!
Then we get to it. Anyone passing would be forgiven for thinking it was a soft porn film. In front of me slim hips don’t lie as they swivel and washboard abs twist from side to side. I am slightly mortified but then slowly I realise that my menopausal cloak of invisibility means no-one is watching me. So I begin to dance accordingly. I am Beyonce! I am Flavia! I am Baby in Dirty Dancing. I imagine being introduced on Strictly – ‘she was top of the leaderboard last week – can she make it another week – she is a top contender for the glitter ball’. Then getting my scores ‘it’s a ten from Len’. I fling myself around with gay abandon – ‘take that Snowflake Bitches’ I say (not out loud obvs – some of them look really hard and very strong) channelling my inner Cher.
But then Chantelle jumps from the stage where she has been gyrating and I realise I have made a rookie error. NO NO NO – she dances to the back of the class and instructs us all to turn round. I am now at the front of the class and can clearly see in the mirror that I do not, as I had imagined, resemble the love child of Shakira and J-Lo but more like the love child of Bernard Manning and Anne Widdecombe. And I don’t have the moves like Jagger – I have the moves like a scarecrow blowing randomly in the wind. This is not good.
Fortunately this torture is short lived as Chantelle dances back to take her rightful place on the stage. She is looking for volunteers to join her and she is not short of the young and the beautiful. I am so tempted to leap onto the stage and shout ‘hey girls – look here – yes I am your future. Enjoy your flat tummies; your hair free chins; your normal body temperature; your perky boobs – coz in a few years they will go quicker than a skid on the sweat splashes that are appearing on the dance floor’. But thanks to my HRT, I manage to refrain.
I get home and peel my leggings off. Oh god – I realise a rip in the back of them. Oh god oh god – I mean don’t get me wrong – I have a great arse (let’s just say – no butt implants needed here) but I wasn’t even wearing sexy pants. I had the old comfy ones which I suspect might be even older than Chantelle.
So will I return?
Hell yeah!! But this time with sexy pants and a trendier gym kit. The happy hormones are still floating around inside me ten hours later!.
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