Tworking It: A White Girl Zumba Tale

To be honest, one of the most devastating parts of leaving Philadelphia (aside from leaving my hair stylist) has been leaving my fitness studio. As a bit of an addict, my attendance at at least 6 Zumba classes per week defined my single girl life. Some singles run and sign up for marathons to pass the time. I Zumba. Therefore, it was important to me to find a gym in DC that I felt a part of. And I also figured it would be a good way for me to start making new friends. I did some quick googling and found a gym close by that offered a range of classes that were conducive to my work schedule. So off I went this past Saturday morning—by myself because my roommate just can’t get out of bed that early. I chose this first gym in what I expect to be a process like “The Dating Game,” armed with my questions of compatibility. Will the instructor be upbeat and motivational, but not annoyingly motivational? Will she nicely blend Latin beats with recent pop hits? How about toning? Will my butt hurt when it’s over? A sure fire sign of a good Zumba class is always the butt pain the next day. 

When I got to the place, after having some difficulty finding its location in the strip mall, somewhat obstructed by the Home Depot and Post Office, I waited. I was still too early for class and didn’t want to be that girl standing awkwardly in the back, the only person not having someone to talk to. When I finally braved my way into the studio, the woman at the front desk welcomed me... and then made me fill out approximately 18 pages of paper work. Great, now I am going to be late for the class that I was actually 22 minutes early for. By the time I was able to enter the Zumba room, I realized that that the crowd was going to make it difficult at best to secure a spot in the back. I also realized that I was the only white girl in a sea of African American divas and the only one not sporting an awesome headscarf. How embarrassing when you're not aware of the style requirements. Knowing that I was going to be schooled by their rhythm, I wedged into the back corner, hoping that that no one would notice me even through the mirror. But when you’re 5’10 and pale and blonde, your definitely going to stick out in this crowd.

Zakayha, our instructor, made her grand appearance at the front of the room, microphone and all. She immediately asked if there were any new people in the room, instructing the newbies to raise their hands. Of course I was the only one. So I went with it, energetically raising my hand and giving a big smile. After all, I’m a trained dancer (okay, ballet but at least I have coordination and musicality), and I’m a Zumba instructor, though I have more of a Latin Pop style. I can fit it. Zakayha announced to the room that as the newbie, I need to get ready to “shake it.” Shake it? Shake what? I had by far the flattest butt in the room. A wide butt, but a flat butt nontheless. But boy did I try to shake it. Most of the songs in this 60 minute cardio class were hip hop, and I kept up, furiously gyrating everything my mama gave me. When it came time for the Wobble, I sprouted that much more confidence. You see, I can hold my own in the Wobble, as this white girl enjoys a 21st century urban line dance. Beaming with pride, I thought I had actually done my part to close the racial dance gap, to give white girls everywhere some Zumba cred. But then there was the twerking contest. With just 15 minutes left in the class, people were tired and sweaty and needed that extra push. So Zakayha brought out her twerking-inspired number that was sure to work the legs, the butt, the abs, and our courage. We were divided into two lines facing each other, and we were instructed to battle a series of 4 moves to show just how low we could drop it, how fast we could shake it, and how much we could pop it. This is where my whiteness really shone through. As much as I tried, I could not get my butt to pop like that or get my pelvis to do its own thing when I was so low in a squat. I just couldn’t. Is that even humanly possible? The real triumph was not in receiving the band of high 5s from all of the women in my battle line at the end of the contest. It was being able to get up out of my squat when all was said and done. 

And just like that, I had made it through my first DC Zumba class. I was tired, but I wasn’t about to heave, and I didn't make a total fool of myself--for that I was going to rejoice. And I guess Zakayha was going to rejoice too…in the form of her Gospel cool down. For 7 minutes, count em 7, I stretched and breathed and gave praise to the workout gods for my health, my strength, and my official acceptance into the African American Zumba class. 

I am blessed! Now I just need to find a headscarf.