It seems every week a new class pops up. I mosey along hoping I'll be the only one who's heard about it, so there's enough space to move without getting my eyes gouged by a stranger's flying arms. According to new research 97.5% of Scots are apparently leading wildly unhealthy lives – surely everyone is too busy deep-frying their cigarettes to check out a dance class?
Nooo. The queues are always out the door and they actually have to turn away some booty shaking addicts.
On Wednesday I cheated on kickboxing to try a new class and it was good, aside from the hysterical gigglers. You do laugh a lot at Zumba – it's the best way to cope with the discrepancy between how you feel when you dance and the actual sight of your dancing in the mirror. But these two dames were insane with their constant, high pitched vuvuzela-esque squealing. They did not let up for the whole hour. I cannot salsa under those conditions!
Last night's class was in a primary school sports hall. The laughter levels were ideal and the pace was furious. It took two hours for my face to return to its normal colour. Definitely a keeper.
The only problem I can see with this evening dance frenzy is that it turns you into a zombie. When I got home I flopped on the couch to wait for my heart rate to return to earth. Gareth flopped beside me, equally knackered after doing a Sufferfest on the exercise bike. We were so powerless against our knackeredness that we could not summon the energy to stop watching one of the crappest movies of all time – Cleaner, starring Samuel L Jackson and Eva Mendes.
Samuel is an ex-cop who now cleans crime scenes for a living. He lands in deep poo after realising he's cleaned away evidence of a terrible murder. The suspense builds quite nicely only to have a bucket of cold water chucked over it by a pitifully dull plot "twist" that makes a Law and Order rerun look like Shakespeare. Then there's an awful voiceover at the end about cleaning and carpet stains as metaphors for the human condition that is so lame you will HOWL at the ceiling.
So the moral to the story is, if you get hooked on Zumba stay away from the telly afterwards. Just have a shower and go to bed!