Baile Insanity

Since I have now joined the gym I thought I should get my money's worth and start going to some classes. Actually, that's a total lie. Going to classes is really easy cardio. I suffer way less than when I'm on the treadmill. That's why I occasionally go. So far I have went to several Aerobox classes. I really don't think they're terribly challenging, but the Chilenas who also attend would probably beg to differ. Each class we lose at least two women before the end, and that's not counting those who just sit down on the floor taking periodic rest breaks. We usually begin the routine by simple feet moves and air punching. But when the teacher starts throwing kicks in that's when they start dropping like flies.

I'll be brutally honest on here and admit that I had been feeling quite athletically superior to the other girls in my class. Aerobox doesn't fatigue me, I learn the routines easily, and the teacher always nods approvingly at how hard I punch and how high I kick. Basically, I'm an Aerobox champ. So when Aerobox started getting boring after a few sessions I thought I'd go on to conquer another cardio class simply called Baile.

Negative. There was no conquering to be had of any sort.

WHY WOULD I DO THAT TO MYSELF?!?! Baile means dance in English. I would NEVER submit myself to the tortures of a dance class in the U.S. I guess saying baile, rather than dance just sounds much less threatening so I figured I'd be ok. But no, I was about as equally sucky in my Baile class as I was awesome in my Aerobox class.

White men can't jump and white girls can't dance.

That's just the way things work. Ever since I was a child I've had no rhythm. I have specific memories from 4th grade when I went to a Janet Jackson concert where everyone in the audience was waving their arms in the air and clapping to the beat. The dancers on the stage were doing a ridiculously, insanely amazing routine, Janet panted into the microphone as she tried to sing along. The energy in the air was palpable. I wanted so badly to clap along with everyone else but I simply could not get it. I clapped at the wrong moments every single time. Consequently, I went home from the concert and decided I wanted to be a dancer, OR a famous singer when I grew up. 4th graders dream big. My always positive mother did nothing to discourage these ideas in spite of the fact that I couldn't carry a tune or shake my booty to save my life. Just like when I wanted to be an Olympic gymnastic after I watched heroic Kerri Strug do a gold medal vault on an ankle with no bones...or something, my mom didn't say me, "Kyle, you're chubby, you can't do the splits, and you've decided on this career way too late in life. Gymnasts peak at 10. You're 11, you're over the hill, forget about it. You'll never be an anorexic midget like Olympic gold medal winner." No, my mom encouraged my love of dance watching endless routines (on roller skates nonetheless) set to the music of Janet's awe inspiring, "If I was your lover oh the things I'd do to you..."

By the way Mom, who lets a 4th grader listen to that kind of music, let alone go to those kinds of concerts? You're lucky I didn't turn out to be promiscuous!

Anyways, back to the point, being that I danced and gymnasticked my way through childhood, never realizing the full extent of my suckage at both. It wasn't until I was in college that I actually saw myself in a mirror trying to move to music. Let's just say that this was not a pretty sight. For some reason those memories had faded when I signed myself up for Baile class at the gym but oh how they came rushing back when the music turned on and everyone started to shimmy and shake accordingly.

Fortunately I am a direct descendant from a long line of Those-Who-Are-Not-Easily-Embarrassed. Like my forefathers (and foremothers) before me, it takes more than salsa and merengue to make me feel stupid. So at Baile class I watched the instructor closely, I followed her every move closely but I knew that I was way too stiff to be doing it right (thank you for that, 6 summers of cheerleading camp). Even though I picked up the routines easily and remembered the steps that I should have been doing (and thank you for that as well, cheerleading camp hell making us practice routines until 2 am and then waking us up at 6 am for more), I knew I looked nothing like the rest of the girls in the class. For example, you know the boob shimmy, when you walk forward holding your arms out wide and shake your boobs like Shakira? When we did that I'm pretty sure all I did was just walk forward with my arms out. There was no gyrating involved, not for lack of want, but for lack of talent. Or when the routine involved clapping I just air clapped after the first couple times when I kept making noise on the off beats and people kept staring. Basically, the Chilenas kick my ass at the cha cha, the salsa, the mamba and any other dance that involves utilizing your assets.

I was busy holding my breath the entire time wishing and hoping that the teacher would, at no point in time, say the dreaded words freestyle. If you're like me, you understand. Freestyle is your worst enemy and line dancing is your best friend. Fortunately I wasn't subjected to that. What I was subjected to was a veritable sea of camel toes. Seriously. Some of these women really need to look into finding new outfits for their vajayjays.

So I spent the hour trying not to look down and composing this blog entry in my head. From now on I think I'll stick to Aerobox.