I called a female friend of mine the other day in the hopes she might grant me a peek into the better half’s Inner Sanctum. This wasn’t about something as frivolous as the ultimate orgasm, no. For that I can reference Cosmo.
My question involved something much more serious.
When did this movement supersede Burberry as a must have for every member of the female population? Why it is that every woman who does Zumba immediately falls in love and gets married to it? In a Stepford wedding kinda way?
Her response seemed more a state mandated endorsement than a believable response. “Because you don’t feel as if you’re working out. You’re having fun!”
Working out as fun. Hmm. It seemed an incongruous proclamation. And that was when I knew I had lost her as well. She had been reprogrammed into some fictionalized monster out of The Hunger Games. Her voice carried the same genuine inflection, but her soul had been hijacked.
That was when I understood the good old days to be dead and buried. Back when women stuck to a fitness program out of seething hatred for their waif-like counterparts. Back when women loved a fitness program only because of their hunky Latin instructor.
I have been using the Shake Weight for several months now and I have to admit this goofy gadget works. I use it because it gives me what I want in a fraction of the time. But I don’t love it. Not even close. Maybe it’s jealousy on my part since I’ve never loved an exercise regimen in my life. Hell, even sex comes with an exit strategy.
But Zumba? . . . “I can do it for hours!”
I eased out of the conversation with my friend, taking great pains not to insult her fitness program. I figured the phone line was probably being tapped in to by the shadowy half of this sunshine and rainbow company. Zumba Headquarters is based in Florida. But I imagine they have a shadowy subterranean organization for non-believers such as myself. Something that goes by the name of Zumba Procurement and Indoctrination Bureau. I imagine they do business in some nondescript, marble columned office building in a densely populated urban area between a McDonald’s and an H&R Block. There’s probably a Zumba Store fronting it so’s the ladies can purchase Zumba studded yummy zip-up hoodies and their Zumba leggings, their vibe tribe scarfs, their V-bra tops and racerbacks and spaghetti tank tops. They barely notice it when their disbelieving men are disappeared into the re-education wing via a trapdoor where they are force fed the Zumba code by a couple of uniformed apes- Gold’s Gym Repos who issue monosyllabic ultimatums and are quite adept at tearing off vital body parts if provoked.
Women have been known to spend the better part of a weekend knee deep in Zumba-gear dressing rooms since the company has more accessories than Charlie Sheen has sexual conquests. And for the love of Jack LaLanne, Zumba even peddles baby onesies. I cringe to think there will be a generation of Zumba soldiers who will have no idea as to what phrases like “Feel the Burn” mean. The Dark Ages of working out will seem as unbelievable to them as water fountains, pay phones and Ben Affleck’s acting career.
I realize the Zumba Army has its eyes and ears everywhere, so I’m probably going to have to change my name. Again. Which is fine with me, because the alternative is to join up.
“You should come to one of my classes. You’ll be hooked.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.