Hip Hop Mama

I liked everything about my workout routine. I especially liked the “routine” part. It was comfy. I had the moves down so I never felt stupid—unless I forgot to unplug my headphones from the elliptical trainer before I disembarked. Then all bets were off.

Because I was in my “zone,” a place where I didn’t have to think too much about my own fitness, I had plenty of time to critique those around me. Day in and day out, the same people did the same exercises. I wondered why they never looked any better.

They probably wondered the same thing about me.

Could it be my workout groove was simply a workout rut in denial? Could I handle something new, something different, something that had “Foolish at Your Age” written all over it?

Uh, maybe. If somebody paid me.

A Hip-Hop class at the gym fit the risk bill perfectly. Dread alone raised my pulse rate to target range. My kids snickered and asked if they could tag along and videotape. It’s always good to have family support.

I aimed to be first so I could nab some prime real estate in the back. Unfortunately, only seven other people showed, so there was only “front” available. I think their parents dropped them off.

The girl next to me looked like the frail young sister in Little Women. She was wearing baggy black pants exactly like mine except hers rode about four inches lower on her hips. I had a mom urge to yank them up, but I restrained myself. After all the website described this class as “urban” and “street.” I didn’t want to dis’ her. She might be packin’ heat.

It was difficult to relax in a room covered in mirrors. Wherever I looked, there I was. I felt like my flaws were in Surround Sound and the music hadn’t even started. It was unnerving.

The teacher arrived wearing a funky bandana. Part of the Hip-Hop package, I assumed. She put on loud, pulsating music. As a warm-up, Frail Girl dropped to the floor and started spinning on her head. I almost hyperventilated until I realized no one else was spinning.

Oh, a gym show-off. Seen that before.

The teacher walked us through some moves. She went slowly at first and repeated often. I followed, stiff but game. Some of the steps were actually relics from the disco era. I was probably the only person here who knew that firsthand.

She added more moves then speeded them up. I felt like a teenager learning stick shift on a hill. It took all my concentration just to stay a half-count behind. Every once in a while, I got a few beats exactly right. I couldn’t help but grin in triumph. This was fun!

Afterwards, I felt exhilarated. I was a complete success at Trying Something New and well, a complete dork at Hip Hop. But that’s ok. I’ll be back. I think I’ll dump my rut and keep my groove. Besides, belly dancing and Cowboy Boogie sound fun…