Everything I need to know I learned in Zumba class

There are, apparently, only two rules in Zumba. At least that is what Bernice at the Midtown YWCA told us--a class of about 100 men, women, and, yes, children. The first rule: keep moving, the second: have fun.  As a general rule when I attend one of these kinds of classes (that involve following along--zumba, aerobics, spin, even yoga), I am really good at keeping moving. I'm also a bit of an overachiever in the sense that I want to follow as accurately as I can, do it as well as I can, with the best form that I can. At least, that has been true for me historically. I expect it's in my genes. And in my daughter's genes, too. We got it, I'm pretty sure, from my dad, a consumate perfectionist.  So I'm good at keeping moving and following fairly closely directions. But the fun? Well, all that attention to doing it right can sometimes be at the expense of fun.

So, in the spirit of saying "yes" to the universe and any number of other things, I decide for today to be serious about rule number two. I decide to have fun. And it's almost impossible not to, really. First off, it's about a million degrees outside, and has been all week really, so we are all a little wilted and inclined to surrender to begin with. In addition, there are an astonishing number of people in the gym; we are all shapes and sizes, all ages and persuasions--young men, nerdy looking guys, grandfathers. And the women are amazing. There are sexy hipsters, demure young women, Somalian women in full-length dress and hijab, middle-aged women (ahem), and "silver sneaker" types. To add to the festive ambience, many of the women are wearing what I imagine must be belly dancing accessories--belts with coins dangling from them. Enough women are wearing them that you can hear them jangling even over the very loud music. It was pretty fantastic watching and hearing them shake their hips.  I really wish I had one of those jangley belts, too. You can get yours here.

As I stand in the back of the room, not really able to see or hear Bernice (who sang the words to almost all the songs and encouraged us to "shake it" and "move it" and a few other directives I didn't fully catch but looked enticing), I let myself keep moving without thinking much about form or accuracy. After all, the music was infectious, the energy in the room exuded (sometimes reckless) abandon, and nobody would know or care if I didn't get the steps just right. I mean, seriously, who really was going to care except me? And why would I give perfection a second thought when there was so much fun to be had right there in Midtown Minneapolis where, for one hour, I had nothing to do but follow two simple rules?