Recruit

I have joined the army.

Not THE army. Not even any actual army.

I've joined... the Zumba Army.

I have become one of the hordes of women who stand in line at my local Y on Saturday morning, grasping a tiny, numbered ticket which allows me passage into a massive gym. When the doors open, we all race in, eager to claim a spot, each of which is marked with a red star.

Once the doors close, no one else is allowed inside. The room is packed to capacity. Late-comers can only peek through the tiny windows high on the gym doors, listen to the lame apologies from the employee guarding the door, and hope to arrive earlier next week. I imagine that they eventually wander off to the weight room, where they run on the treadmill sadly, in silence.

Meanwhile, the Zumba Army warms up. Our instructor stands in front, on a raised platform. She cranks up the music and starts to dance.

Seventy women follow her lead. Our hips don't lie. We're livin' la vida loca. We'll spin your head right round (when you go down, when you go down, down).

We pound the gym floor: stomp, stomp, stomp. Our hands go numb: clap, clap, clap. We hoot and holler so loud that passers-by stop to see what's going on.

We wiggle, shake, and shimmy.

We are the sweatiest, sexiest army ever.

C'mon, you know you want to join. TEN-HUT!
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