Zumba and Bacalao
A few years back, I was taking these Zumba classes. Apparently, I forgot exactly how taxing they were. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE this class. Enough so that I paid up for 8 classes at the gym that has it that doesn't make you join to take classes there. (I hate when gyms do that.) I went to the first class last night.
I thought I was in decent shape. I was dead wrong. Okay, wait, I'm in decent physical shape, but I'm in terrible cardiovascular shape – think overweight smoker. This class is vigilante hardcore to the penis! (Name that tune.) Were it not for my competitive nature, and the cash I just dropped, I would have been out of there in the first 20 minutes. I think we were about 10 minutes in when my chest started burning. That's my own fault though because I wasn't breathing properly. At 15 minutes, I was certain that I was heading for an early death. At 20 minutes, some of the women around me (yeah, it was only chicks and the guy instructor) started "taking breaks" that they didn't return from. That's when the competition gene kicks in. There's no way that I'm gonna quit if there are people still going. Especially not the lady with the super huge fake boobs that's probably giving herself black eyes. So I stuck it out.
About halfway through, I got my breathing down while still getting the moves. Hooray! The rest was a cake walk. I'm actually excited to go back next week.
Oh yeah, bacalao. Pronounced BACK-A-LOWWWWW (not like low, like l plus owwww, as in i hurt myself)
Really, it's just a funny word to say. It's like salt-dried cod. Big in the Cuban households. I've never had it. Don't think I want to try it. I will still say it. Loud and often. BACALAO!
Now I'm wiped out. Three posts in one day.
HEP! (More on HEP when I go back to the rig in April.)
