Twice a week, I become this insane, possessed person. I throw on my gym clothes, fill up my water bottle, and snarl at anyone who gets in my way.
I'm going to Zumba, dammit.
I LOVE Zumba. For me, it's not just about the sweat or the exercise, it's mainly about the music and the dance.
Ah, the dance.
I love to dance. I danced in my bedroom as a kid, radio turned up as loud as it would go, my father banging on the door and yelling Turn that jungle music down! I danced in my dorm room all through college. I danced at sorority and frat parties. I danced like a maniac at Bell Bottoms, a popular Atlanta nightclub from the 1990s. I still dance in my kitchen. Zumba gives me the opportunity to release my inner ballet/hip hop/belly dancer.
Until this morning, Zumba has been free and awesome. I don't give a rat's ass what anyone thinks I look like. I shake my shimmy, have a great time, and let it all hang loose.
And then, I farted.
It happened in the middle of the class, at the height of our aerobic activity. My hips were hopping, belly was dancing, and my butt cheeks were squeezed tighter than the gates of Ft. Knox.
One of the more unpleasant side-effects of metformin (an insulin-controlling drug) is gas. Lots and lots of gas. Like, I sometimes feel that in a past life I was a hot air balloon. Normally, I try to hold it until I can walk away and cut loose in another part of the house/restaurant/grocery store/wherever where there is no one around. Not today. Oh, no. My gas was out of control
I cut loose right at the end of a song. And I'm pretty sure that the lady behind me crossed herself.
And Zumba in Woodstock will never again be the same.