Z to the UMBA!

I have recently salsa-ed my way onto the Zumba wagon. I have very little dance background - two years of hula taught me how to get the most out of a good old hip shake, but that's about all I've got to offer. But somehow, with hula and my innate sense of rhythm, I was a natural.

I shimmy, I cha-cha, I salsa, and I merengue. I swivel my hips and I pump my arms and I look fantastic. I know I do. I can feel the music dance it's way through my veins, and as I slide to the right I bend at the waist, squat, look up, and search for myself in the mirror.

I look past the skinny girl in the front row, packing exactly no junk in her miniscule trunk, around the girl in the green running shorts to...nope, that can't be me. No way. No how.

In my head, I'm smooth and graceful. I glow. In the mirror I'm clunky and awkward, my knee bends look like my puppeteer cut the strings, and sweat is pouring down my face. In fact, the only way I'm able to spot myself is by looking for my day glow pink sports bra. My chest is flushed, my arms are red, and my face - well, due to the amazing power of MAC's foundation, my face is still perfectly made up (ridiculously so, actually).

Gone is the Zumba goddess of my imagination. Gone is the graceful movement, the smooth shimmy and salsa, the effortless glow that I just knew that I had. Gone is the natural talent. Welcome back to reality, Sarah. It's a bitch.

Next time I'm hiding in back.