Pit-iful

So I'm still doing Zumba. My neighbor Nicki and I try to go at least twice a week. And apparently so does everyone else on this end of town, because the classes are always packed. So unless you get there really early, you end up either a.) squished against the door at the back of the room, or b.) in the dreaded front row where your jiggling ass is in full view of the 96,000 other Zumba-goers.

And guess what? Last night we had trouble finding a parking space and didn't get there early enough. Class was already in progress when we walked in. "Welcome!" the instructor chirped from the front - into her microphone - as we tried to slip silently in. So of course, all the heads swiveled our way. And as my eyes desperately scanned the back of the room for a space to squeeze into, she said the words I dreaded hearing: "There's room up here in the front!"    

I know what you're thinking. I've been doing this for a while. I should be, like, a total expert. Everybody probably marvels at my mad Zumba skillz. Right? Well, not so much. I mean, I'm not terrible at it, but I'm not to the point of being comfortable in the front row either. Still, when the instructor practically orders you to stand up there - and there's no room in the back because of all the other people who don't wanna be on the front row - what can you do?

So that's how I ended up on the front row.

In front of a huge mirror.

In a glaring patch of direct sunlight.

Ugh.

When one is faced with an image of one's self doing Zumba, one can't help but look. And even though I tried to avoid glancing at myself in the mirror, it was hard considering every time I looked straight ahead, there I was. And when one is bathed in a stream of dazzling sun coming through the window, it tends to highlight one's imperfections.

There was a little too much midsection for my liking. A bit too much jiggle in the thighs. Even the occasional hint of - gasp! - camel toe. (Note to self: your gray workout pants ride up.) Oh, the horror!

To make matters worse, the instructor is one that I've only had once before. Her dances are different. She had a couple of new songs. So I wasn't exactly what you'd call sure-footed; it took me a minute to master each new move, during which time I bumbled around moronically, and by the time I'd caught on to one thing it seemed like she was on to the next. And then? She said something even more terrifying than her room-in-the-front-row comment: "Oh, here's our camera!"

I followed her eyes to the back of the room - and there, coming in the door, was a cameraman. A cameraman. As in, a guy toting video recording equipment. Seriously?

So there I was, bopping around in all my ripply, uncoordinated glory on the front row, being V-I-D-E-O-T-A-P-E-D. For what purpose I'm still not sure. I thought maybe I'd taken a wrong turn and accidentally ended up in hell instead of the 5:45 Zumba class.

Then it got even worse. Because the inevitable happened: I started to sweat.

When we do Zumba, Neighbor Nicki just glows. She gets this ... sheen. But I? Drip. Sweat comes from every pore. The ends of my hair drip sweat, it trickles down my back, down my neck, between my boobs - you name a body part, and it's sweating. Which leads to something terribly embarrasing: pit stains.

I slather on anti-perspirant before each workout. I've even tried the "clinical strength" kind. It's not like I intend to look like a sweaty fat guy by the time Zumba is over. But it's just the way my body works. Here, check it out:

Me playing Just Dance on the Wii. Note the ferocious pit stains. I get down, y'all.  

Exhibit #2: me jumping on my bed (don't ask). Ignore the huge gaping mouth and focus on - again - the pit stain of epic proportions.

For whatever reason, that's what I look like when I exercise. Only picture it like five times worse during Zumba. I was sweating like a whore in church, y'all. And what baffles me is that I'm the only person in the entire class who gets such heinous pit stains - or any pit stains at all, for that matter. I know because I spent the last five minutes of class discreetly checking out every single person in the mirror. There were big girls, girls with fitted shirts, you know, people you might reasonably expect to have sodden armpits like mine. But I didn't see a single spot of dampness on anyone else.

And yes, I shaved, so excessive hair isn't the problem.*

*Although that might be a contributing factor in the winter time.  

Anyway, last night's Zumba class wasn't the carefree rump-shaking fun-fest that it normally is when I've secured a spot at the back of the room (and when I'm not being, you know, videoed). I felt like I was under a microscope the whole time. Me and my pits. And my camel toe. And my spare tire.

I'm getting there half an hour early next time.