I walked out when she told me to shimmy; I don't care how tense my buttocks would have been.
The evening was never
going to go well because the lady at
the door tried to trick me into buying maracas, and I almost did
because I thought she said “maccas”. Then I found out that we had
to wave them around like some bollywood Coles advert.
Our
instructor was glistening in a way that was vaguely unsettling. She
wore her hair in high pigtails and a top with a scooping neck.
Everything bounced. As soon as she started crashing around the stage,
she reminded me of a rabbit with an oestrogen problem.
Then
the strobe lighting and beats began. I was suddenly fifteen again,
doing the running man to Eminem. Except this time the music was
tribal, or maybe it was Latino, or both. Either way, I think it was
meant to speak to our core, that rich source of raw energy. I did the
box-step like a hunter.
About
five minutes in, the instructor started talking. She began with
encouraging phrases like “good work girls”, “keep it going”,
“nice squat Edith”, and then moved swiftly onto imperatives like
“harder!” and “push girls!”. At some point I slipped into a
trance, and when I awoke the lady was yelling anti-male sentiments at
us like “hit him girls! get him! get hiiiiim”
(we were throwing air-punches by this time). I looked around the room
to see if anyone was finding this somewhat inappropriate, but most of
them looked like they had someone pretty specific in mind.
Then
something happened.
The
instructor trotted over to the CD player and changed the track. She
put on some poppy number and turned to face us, chest heaving,
breasts almost knocking her on the chin when she breathed in. She
told us to stretch out our arms, so we did. She told us to bend our
knees a little, so we did. Then she told us to do three vigorous hip
thrusts and shimmy.
I
stood there and watched the throng of women wiggle and thrust with
brows furrowed in concentration.
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