Killer Kardio

I went to last night's class, so kleverly titled "Killer Kardio" at the gym because I didn't have the oomph to get to Bootcamp, held outdoors, in the blistering cold.

And I enjoy the indoor kardio class every once in a while.

The trouble I have is that, try as I may, I cannot help but let the rhythm consume my being when I'm in that large room with all the spotless mirrors and the booming beats that echo from the sound system.

And somehow the One Direction/Ludacris mashup brought out all my best steps, despite how off-putting and non-inspiring as that sounds (trust me: I know).

I cannot help it.

And once the stream moved to David Guetta: Forget it...

I owned that stage classroom.

And in the mirror I couldn't help but feel guilty that I managed to master the steps set forth by the instructor, with gusto, while the others fell a step behind despite their perfect attendance schedule.

Not that I'm bragging.

Because seriously when it comes time to sprint, push a tire or do twenty burpees in rapid succession I am always at the back of the pack in Bootcamp, still being yelled at to "hurry up and finish" while everyone else is catching a breath as they fit in their deep quad stretches and gossip, watching me empathetically (or is it pathetically?) try to finish the set.

I gasp where those others watch me pant at the back of the line with all the new-comers, despite being in Bootcamp for over 2 years. 

But n'no...

Not in the kardio classes with all the satellite dance songs... that space where I manage to turn one of those quasi-Russian- inspired high kick steps into the Kid 'n Play.

I don't know how it happens. 

And I literally have to avoid Zumba class because all the serious Latinas be hating how I make the Macarena get low and add the Wobble to my kick-ball-change warm-up.

I'm sorry.

Please don't hate me for having the moves or knowing how to pas de bourree.

And to be honest I also tend to avoid Zumba because far too many of the attendees wear those...skirt... things... that.... y'know... look like they're made out of copper pennies...

Why?  Were in a gym Zumba class... Not America's Got Talent.  Does the jingle-jangle of the skirt somehow transform us into Shakira?  

I don't think so.

It's awkward.

Where does one even buy such a thing?

But there they go shaking their culos with the sounds of coin rolling machines permeating throughout the acoustically-rich room.

I manage to make my hips shake just a little faster, a little more steadily, a little more 'rump-shaker' than the others and I don't need to sound like I'm making it rain to evidence my rhythmic inclinations.

It's all pretty much the same anyway I just... Do mine a little better. 

I'm sorry. 

Don't be mad. 

Because I truly honestly avoid the klasses just to not seem like an asshole or the type to show-off that the steps come rather easily.

But rest-assured if you want to see me look like a whimpering, energy-less idiot you're best off to watch me do a few rounds of those "Jim Jones" lifts our instructor is so inclined to have us do each week in boot camp classes. It will make you hate me less.

Who doesn't love this David Guetta jam?  (Except my husband, who loathes every dance song that makes me clean faster and type faster...)