Exercising has never been a priority of mine, nor have I found it fun. But the other day we were watching PBS Kids with the kids, and Angelina Ballerina came on. I can’t stand the show, but I love the intermissions where they have real kids teaching you different dance moves. This week it was a trio of youngsters who did hip hop dance. One of them was a chubby boy, and I about died because watching him dance on screen was seriously one of the best things I’d seen all week. I could picture my own son doing that, but hopefully not as chubby.
We got up and did the dance moves (bounce…bounce…now raise the roof, and clap your hands. Now step, clap, step clap…bounce…). And wouldn’t you know it, I was winded. WINDED. From a few simple dance beats.
So if this chubby kid can hip hop, certainly *I* can put together a few simple moves and call it exercise.
No. No I can’t. I tried it today, and I’ll try it tomorrow, and the next day, and so forth, but I’m not holding my breath that practice makes perfect. For me, rhythm and grace just don’t flow through my veins. I found some dance exercise programs on Netflix*, and spent 15 of a 36-minute routine trying to figure out how to even swing my hips and kick my feet at the same time. Defeated, I stopped the program 10 minutes short. But I’m happy to say, a few hours later, my legs were a bit sore and my arms a bit jello-y from all the big fancy moves I did. Huzzah!
Here we go. I’ll be eager to see if I improve any, or I’ll still be a fumbling fool in the basement, sweating to the oldies.
*As I was searching for exercise programs on Netflix, I came across Hot Yoga. Awesome, I thought. I added it to my queue. Then I realized, wait, how can it be hot yoga? The moves are the same, it’s the room that’s hot…so I clicked on it. Hoo boy. Apparently, when they mean Hot Yoga, they mean Hot Men Doing Yoga. They really have different standards on what I think HOT is.