Essersize

Yesterday afternoon I took a Step class at the Y, something I used to do regularly but haven't done in a few years. Step is a good workout--and lots of fun once you catch on. It's the perfect white girl's exercise, requiring minimal rhythm and groove. You have to endure looking like a goober for the first couple of times, but if I can get it, anyone can. Trust me. I'm about as coordinated as a beetle on its back.

I enjoyed the class, even though I'd forgotten many of the moves that used to come like breathing. And it was unfortunate that K was there, the smokin' mother of one of Lo's classmates. Not only did she know the drill, she fancied it up, doing extra bumps and sashays, wearing her bright green Nike sports bra and black dance shorts. She's probably 5'11" with one of those ultra-hip layered bobs--blond of course. I'm guessing ex-cheerleader.

I was right beside her in front of the mirrored wall, dwarfish, in the grey sweat pants I'd slept in the night before. I'd thrown on my "It's not me, it's you" tank top, which lost its punch in that light. I'd also forgotten to put my hair up, and as the class went on and the room got hotter and stickier, the hair got bigger and bigger, encroaching on K's space.

Still, like I said, I had fun. After all these months of jogging, I'd forgotten how group exercise can energize you. So when I got home, I looked up the Y schedules online, to see if they still offered kickboxing, something else I'd managed to get the hang of back when. But no kickboxing to be found. Instead, I saw something I'd never heard of before, called Zuma. Curious, I searched it on Youtube. I'll just stick to Step.