Seriously, when I think of my those times, I want to award my Mummy a medal. It was the best.
With all those opportunities to dance you’d think I’d at least be good at it.
But alas. No.
With all those opportunities to dance you’d think I’d at least be good at it.
But alas. No.
I was an ungainly, awkward child who couldn't work out how to get her arms to do one thing whilst her feet did something else. Like most things in life, I made up for a lack of skill with greater enthusiasm or by shrugging it off and pretending that I never wanted to be a great dancer anyway.
Co-ordination and I have never been bosom buddies.
Especially as said bosom grew, with a booty to match.
Especially as said bosom grew, with a booty to match.
Then in my 20s, my mate told me I danced like a stripper. She tried to convince me that this was a good thing. For the record. I did keep my clothes on. I understand that the ‘stripper’ description derived from my wriggling hips. Still, not a great recommendation of my dancing skills I think we’d agree...
Luckily (for me anyway, not anyone hoping to watch), I enjoy dancing and music more than anyone with my appalling lack of talent should. And when it comes to exercising and my recent attempts to get fit, dancing-type classes are the top of my to-do list.
I've signed up to the gym. Not the cheapest. Not the closest. But one that had the most number of classes, at convenient times for a Mum getting her kids to bed before heading out to lose the last vestiges of chocolate eclairs baby weight.
I arrived early and sat outside, reading my book and trying not to let my nervousness get the best of me. This was going to be fun!
After a few tenuous smiles I started up a conversation with a couple of other first-timers. They were friendly enough and it was nice to know I wasn’t alone!
The instructor arrived and set up her high-tech clubbing equipment: a couple of spinning disco lights. When she switched off the lights it was time to... party?
As it started to a mix of ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ I knew I was on to a winner. Who doesn’t love that tune?!
For anyone who has tried out aerobics the format will be recognisable. There was a clear warm-up routine, dances of varying pace and intensity followed by a cool down and stretch.
It wasn’t really like dancing in a club. For one there were no lecherous guys spouting crap chat up lines. For another it was clearly exercise and some of it was hard work, my heart rate increased and I was a lil’bit sweaty as you’d expect from over an hour of physical activity.
For me, the main issue was with that dear nemesis of mine, co-ordination.
Everyone else may have have been tapping their feet to the front but I realised I’d be stepping back. The instructor wanted everyone to double to the left and I was still on the single to the right.
There was a point about halfway through Darude ‘Sandstorm’ when, by pure chance, I stepped in the right direction, in time with the music, and for a few bars I was as good as any of those dancers on stage in Ibiza clubs.
I don’t know this for sure. I’ve never been to Ibiza. My only knowledge of the place comes from watching Kevin and Perry Go Large.
Yet, unlike a club dancer, there was no one watching me and that meant that by the time we’d moved on to Robin S ‘Show me love’, my legs once again moving in the opposite direction to everyone else, there was no one to laugh or judge - it was dark, they hopefully couldn’t even see me being a tit.
Hopefully.
So, to recap.
I was dreadful. But not dead like after body conditioning.
Would I do it again?
I got out of bed at 5:50 on a bank holiday morning to ensure I booked a space.
I arrived early and sat outside, reading my book and trying not to let my nervousness get the best of me. This was going to be fun!
After a few tenuous smiles I started up a conversation with a couple of other first-timers. They were friendly enough and it was nice to know I wasn’t alone!
The instructor arrived and set up her high-tech clubbing equipment: a couple of spinning disco lights. When she switched off the lights it was time to... party?
As it started to a mix of ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ I knew I was on to a winner. Who doesn’t love that tune?!
For anyone who has tried out aerobics the format will be recognisable. There was a clear warm-up routine, dances of varying pace and intensity followed by a cool down and stretch.
It wasn’t really like dancing in a club. For one there were no lecherous guys spouting crap chat up lines. For another it was clearly exercise and some of it was hard work, my heart rate increased and I was a lil’bit sweaty as you’d expect from over an hour of physical activity.
For me, the main issue was with that dear nemesis of mine, co-ordination.
Everyone else may have have been tapping their feet to the front but I realised I’d be stepping back. The instructor wanted everyone to double to the left and I was still on the single to the right.
There was a point about halfway through Darude ‘Sandstorm’ when, by pure chance, I stepped in the right direction, in time with the music, and for a few bars I was as good as any of those dancers on stage in Ibiza clubs.
I don’t know this for sure. I’ve never been to Ibiza. My only knowledge of the place comes from watching Kevin and Perry Go Large.
Yet, unlike a club dancer, there was no one watching me and that meant that by the time we’d moved on to Robin S ‘Show me love’, my legs once again moving in the opposite direction to everyone else, there was no one to laugh or judge - it was dark, they hopefully couldn’t even see me being a tit.
Hopefully.
So, to recap.
I was dreadful. But not dead like after body conditioning.
Would I do it again?
I got out of bed at 5:50 on a bank holiday morning to ensure I booked a space.
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