"Drop it like Your Mother Says"

Before I begin, I would like everyone to briefly search their brain for the best Russian/Austrian/German accent they can come up with. True, I am aware that these languages (and countries for that matter) are quite a bit different, but internalizing a flamboyant Schwarzenegger accent will only help in making this story complete.

Lately, I have been taking advantage of inexpensive ways to get my work-out on. Laps at the public (ghetto) pool are now common for summer, happy hour classes at a hot yoga studio here in town, and recently, salsa classes at a nearby dance studio. On a few occasions in New York, I went gallivanting around the city and ended up salsa dancing. Though I truly believed my Latin flavor skills were up to par, I in fact was on the opposite spectrum of what people call "good dancers". Who knew?!? So because earlier this year I had been an element in the belly dancing clique, I thought it time to expand my artistic talents as a dancer and move forward into sexy salsa simulations.

It took some self convincing, (and perhaps a few tequila shots) to finally show up, but I made it and I loved it. My calves ached the next day, I had the dance steps ringing in my head throughout the night, I even downloaded some sultry numbers of my own via itunes. One class under my belt and I am positive I can compete (And win) a dance off in the salsa form. Moreover, this specific dance studio does not solely specialize in salsa dancing, but a number of other heart pumping ways to get your hips shaking. From Cha Cha, to Tango, even Latin Aerobics- guys and dolls from around the city are embracing their inner Gloria Estevan/ Ricky Martin and getting jiggy with it. I, however, have been hearing a lot about a a little number called ZUMBA. Fortunately, the other primary taught and taken class at said studio, is Zumba.

*Quick info* Zumba- "It’s an exhilarating, effective, easy-to-follow, Latin-inspired, calorie-burning dance fitness-party." (www.zumba.com)

There is truly no better way to express the true essence of this out-loud, must release all inhibitions, dance like no one is watching, fun, entertaining, exuberant, salsa aerobics on crack, workout. And it's only 5 dollars per class. Sign,me up!

I figured since I already made it out of my comfort zone to a salsa class, why not go a step further and attempt a Zumba class. Most people are aware at this point, though I have the ability to be reserved and do obtain a few inhibitions, I tend not to hold back. My philosophy is that if one going to be embarrassed, then one should have fun with it. (Or at least that's the feeling towards Zumba). As I arrive for my first class, all seems well; people in sweat-your-ass-off-work-out-gear, water bottle lined walls, a working colored disco ball- you know, the norm... And then the teacher shows up...

"Call me V," he says, "It's short for Ven." (This is where your previously channeled foreign accent will come in handy.)

I've been to Body Pump classes where the instructors push you all the was shouting annoying things such as "yeah, you can do it!" and "c'mon, one more lift!" I've attended spinning classes where over very loud remixes of Paula Abdul, grunts and shouts seem to escape the fatigued mouth of the Nazi spinning instructor. Zumba, however, was extremely new, and somewhat daunting.

V's attire consisted of a tight black polo, translucent-when-moist white "workout" pants, dance shoes, and sunglasses. With just a quick introduction, V says, (das use your accent) "modify how you need, sexy mamas, let's get pumping."

With that, the lights go down, the sexy music is up, and the sunglasses go on. He models a dance routine, complete with high knees, right and left hooks, salsa steps, push-ups, and pelvic thrusting. Every song is as if you're sprinting for 3 minutes. The shades come off, we clap, and do it all over again, for over an hour!!!

Slowly through the duration of the class, Ven manages (as we all do) to become sweatier and sweatier. The result of this perspiration is that those white pants become more like clear pants... and just as he stands in front of me and tells me (accent, please), "Drop it like your mother says!" I do just this, drop it low, as does he. And he follows my get-low-move with, "now drop it like your instructor says!"

In his attempt to show me, I get a full view of his g-string through those transparent pant-a-loons! WTF?!?

And he doesn't care! As soon as V is clear that we can indeed, all drop it low, the Raybans are back on and we get crazy. This man has gone from being boarder line creepy to my hero. He doesn't give a damn about how ridiculous he looks... He just wants to dance!!!

And because of this, I am now a secret (or not so secret) fan of Zumba. Cheesy? Yes! And I don't care!

But please, I'd rather no one see me do this... I look so stupid it hurts- find your own Zumba class!

But I Want to Sit There!!!

Recently, while living the dream, (aka waiting tables) I was faced with an interesting individual who, quite honestly perplexed me. Normally, I have a witty and off kilter comment on standby for the average folk who begin to engage me in conversation while I am at my busiest. I can feed the shameless Friday Night Men (Imagine Baby Boomers in Affliction wear) their crude 'tude right back. Arguing my way around a bill is a speciality of mine, with the end resulting in me asking "what is it you want for free," and the cheap chicken leaving head-hung-low shameful. This day in particular though, I was utterly flabbergasted when a man asked the simplest of questions.

After relaying to him that he may sit anywhere he so desired, it instantly became obvious that I should have clarified that he was able to sit at any TABLE he desired. Looking dumbfounded, the man proceeded to ask me, "But what if someone is sitting where I want to sit?"

In my many moons of waiting tables, I have yet to be baffled in such a way. I gazed at the confused gentleman through my own befuddled eyes, and opened my mouth in response only to discover puttering air rolling off my tongue. There were many unoccupied tables, waiting for guests to rest their tushies and get lit off red wine sangria, but no, this man was solely interested in sitting at this specific table, one in which an elderly couple was exclusively enjoying course 2 of their 3 course dinner.

"Sir", I responded, "you can sit at any table that does not already have people sitting at it. We won't ask them to move for you." Thinking I had cleared up any puzzled thoughts, I was for the second time in a matter of seconds taken by surprise when the man again asked me "but I want to sit there (Where the other couple is and has been for an hour eating drinking) and there are people sitting at that table."

I glared in astonishment, sheer bewilderment, that this man could not comprehend that he was not allowed to sit indeed where he wanted. My welcoming phrase should now be "welcome, sit where ever you want...except at a table that is already occupied...even if that's the table you want...it's first come first serve...and no, you may not ask the early birds to relinquish their seats so you may order a glass of white zin and munch on free bread... Olive Garden is a 10 minute drive up town, they have endless bread sticks, please do not come back here."

The man decided to hit the bar up for a glass of wine (If it had been white zin, I honestly may have sucker punched him in the back of his head) and stood in the doorway, waiting to sit at his table of choice. I walked away, unaware of what to do next. It was like trying to explain to a 6 year old that even though you want to play with the toy trucks, you will have to wait your turn, because someone else is currently enjoying the truck. There were many other toys to play with, but that specific one is off limits until further notice. The fortunate part in illustrating this concept to a young child is that THEY GET IT. Trying to convey a life lesson to a balding 35 year old is like trying to teach a dog to speak. I felt that perhaps if I had utilized my sociology skills (thanks a lot, college degree) I would still have been better off demeaning this man with baby voices and large hand movements.

In the end, the location this man settled on was far from his original scouting preference, nevertheless, a prime location for creepily staring at all who passed by and uttering odd comments about the view from our rooftop balcony. All in all, this is a man I would like to wait on again in the near future; a prime candidate for the loony bin. I can't imagine an evening without such frequent abnormalities, however, in working in the restaurant industry, what exactly is considered normal?!?

Cheers