When I got home from zumba last night, I was happy, re-energized, and glowing. It was a great class (not too many new routines, which makes my brain so so tired), lots of laughter, plenty of room for me to shake my groove thang. (There are around 40 people in the class; 10 stand in the front half of the gym, and 30 crowd in the back, where apparently they're invisible, or so they'd like to believe. It is hilarious.) When I got there, a couple of my front-row pallies were playing basketball — and I tossed off my jacket and ran in to join them (laughing at myself the whole time, because I am truly terrible at all sports. But who cares?). And then one of my friends ran up behind me to steal the ball when I was (badly) dribbling, and everyone was watching us and laughing and cheering, and it was just so much fun, I felt like one of the popular girls. Which I guess I am. Woo!
And as we were leaving, a nice French woman sidled up to me and murmured, "Every week I mean to tell you how good you look. You are melting before our eyes!" Sweet, n'est-ce pas?
I did look very cute last night (i.e., fat middle-aged cute), all tight black Lycra and plum-colored lipstick and major cleavage, and that helped my mood too.
I have to remember that feeling. When I'm sad and tired and fatigued and discouraged, exercise is my friend. Except it has to be a fun exercise like zumba, I never feel triumphant and glowy on my treadmill. Smug and virtuous, yes, but not that happy-happy-joy-joy I felt last night.
You know? I think a lot of it has to do with the group aspect — I'm doing this with people, and we laugh and joke through the whole thing, but we also work hard. The Fit Blondie who stands in front of me (love her) kicks her legs very high, and I know that inspires me to try to kick a little higher. And being in the front row, you're very aware that there are 30 people behind you watching; you can't be a slacker, in other words. I'm sure that if I had some friends over to treadmill with me, it would be a lot more fun.
(Now, how to obtain the multiple treadmills . . . ? That is a poser.)
And I do feel better and more like myself today, though all of my Math kids were little pissheads, and I actually got annoyed and used my Seriously Mad Voice with them, for the first time with one group; I've been nothing but smiles and sunshine to this point. "You sound like my mom," little M said, so sadly. O to see her beloved bubbly Mrs. Chardonnay turn out to be just a regular adult — what a comedown. For us all.
I've had almost no paying work this week, sigh, but I'm getting a lot of small projects done, and that is something. Actually, that is a huge something; work will come again, and it's lovely to have so many of these back-burner items off my plate. So, yay, I'll take my celebrations where I can find them.
More zumba tonight, then a hot bath and a choice of four groovy-looking library books! Though I think The Diviners by Libba Bray is too big for the tub; its spine measures something like four inches.
Oh! Which reminds me: I did indeed straighten "my" library section today. In addition to adolescent angst, feminism, and geriatric sex, I'm responsible for family conflicts, immigration stories, a lot of Robert Bly, and So Your Husband's a Bisexual. I go slower than I should, because I keep stopping to read flyleafs. And I found a wildly misplaced book, all about what the Pope has to say about your sex life, which I have to think that someone was maybe hiding on purpose. Hee! I love my volunteer work!!
—Lady C, pillar of the community