Zumbawamba

I get down and can't get up again.

Today's gym trip was planned so carefully: a zen session starting with core, followed by pilates and topped off with yoga. I had a mental image of a calisthenic workout, challenging but not sweaty, and leaving with abs of steel and chilled to the max. However, core was fully booked so I went next door and tried Zumba instead. I'm a complex person. 

My friend told me it would be fun. By which I think she meant that anyone watching we 40-somethings trying to coordinate the hips, the arms, the legs and the feet with each other (leaving aside the insistent beat of the music) would die laughing. The music was loud too, particularly as I had to position myself at the back and to the far right so I couldn't see myself in the mirror... always those damn mirrors... right next to one of the speakers.

We started off well - a little stepping and some arm swinging and I was enjoying myself, and keeping up with the sexa, septua and octogenarians in my class. Then we picked up the pace. Let's just say that the sports bra did its job, but I'm beginning to think I could corner the market with a sports girdle. I saw the funny side when one particular move was to approach the mirror in a tight mince and execute some punching down shoulder and armography - frankly, we looked like a herd of Stavros Flatley impersonators at their first Britain's Got Talent exhibition.

About 20 minutes in, I took a sneaky drink, a prime opportunity to excuse myself from the frenzied dance aerobics - even without the added complications of the arms, I looked like an epileptic spider trying to dance along to a jazz off-beat with little success.

Then, an absolute tune came on, and I had to join back in, my Nikes were itching to dance. Actually, it wasn't the full tune, just a modern dance hit with a riff from my time. I'm only grateful I didn't have sufficient puff to even try to sing along - I was making enough of a fool of myself. Anyway, I channelled my inner Bollywood and made like Nicole in Jai Ho, although I'm not entirely sure what my destiny is, unless it's a career in farce.

Then we got a little tribal. For the record, late middle-aged women attempting a body roll is not something anyone should have to witness, unless you're looking for a cheap contraceptive. I'm convinced that if the music wasn't pounding, there would have been a number of pfffts from the class too when we tried to imitate Beyonce with her pelvic thrusting - just saying. 

Finally, we were into salsa and I really came into my own. I knew those years spent studying dance would come in useful and I made the most of every stylistic trick I knew and pretended I was on Strictly. I'm determined that, as soon as I'm able to a) keep up and b) have the routines down pat, I'm going in head-to-toe in sequinned lycra to totally live my dream of dancing on the BBC.

One particular low point for me was when the instructor came over to ask if I was OK, or having heart pains. I was actually rearranging my sports bra to accommodate the perspiration, and I'm a little offended - I'm not particularly fit, but I'm not on my last legs either. And I haven't stiffened up since I left, so I'm counting this as a big win.

It may not have been a zen morning, but I loved it. And I can enjoy supper knowing I've already burned the calories with my exertions. I'm up for body combat tomorrow and that's going to be a whole new experience. God help me!