It should go without saying that there's a slight period of adjustment at the beginning of any new semester. I teach a lot of classes, eight this semester, and I have a variety of other self-imposed obligations to balance. That explains why I haven't posted in a while. It takes a few weeks to learn the routine. There's no obligation this semester to which that adjustment period applies to better than my fitness course.
Starting last summer, I've made a concerted effort to work a sort of fitness activity into my weekly schedule. I have a sedentary occupation, which involves a great deal of sitting on my b.w.a. I'm also not the healthiest eater, so it's important that I do something to resist my body's genetic tendency towards being "big and tall."
You're not going to like the way you look. I guarantee it.
This semester, I signed up for a group cardio fitness course, but it was cancelled due to low enrollment. I don't have a lot of free time to work fitness into my schedule, so I signed up for a different class at the same time of day. That, dear readers, is how I ended up in a Zumba course with a throng of middle-aged women.
At first, I thought "How embarrassing could it possibly be?" There's going to be several other people like me who probably lack a natural sense of rhythm or shame, so I might just blend into a sea of sweaty, awkward, graceless bodies. Like I do with most things, I went to the internet to read and research more about being a man in a Zumba class.
As it turns out, there's a phenomenon in psychology known as the Spotlight Effect. Basically, we're each obsessed with ourselves and how we're perceived by others. We assume that our missteps, such as clumsily twirling while dancing, will be noticed and mocked by those around us. The irony of the Spotlight Effect is that research shows the opposite. Because most people are obsessed with their own perception, they pay less attention to our mistakes because they're too busy thinking of their own. This is compounded when one finds oneself in a room full of people dancing and twirling about like drunken giraffes with equilibrium disorders.
Armed with this knowledge, I went and danced bravely. The workout itself wasn't all that bad. My heart rate was up, I was sweaty, and I felt like I worked a variety of different parts of my body. Everyone, save the instructor, was as bad at the dance steps as I was. So long as I focused on extending my range of motion to get more out of the moves, this seemed like it might be better than I initially thought.
A few nights in, we were going through our usual steps. The instructor added a few steps, including a few pelvic gyrations and floor slaps. There's no such thing as a subtle pelvic gyration, but this step involved putting both hands behind my head and swinging my midsection left, then right, then back to the left, like I'm some kind of afternoon-shift reject at a ladies' club dedicated to reenacting The Full Monty, five days a week with five shows a day. Or even worse, I might have created a passing resemblance to this:
To compound the awkwardness, we were also meant to stop, mid gyration, bend over, and slap the floor with both hands. As I said earlier, I have no sense of shame. If I do, it's easily brushed aside like a tiny crumb on a my sweater, clinging to its last few moments of life as edible food. Like a good little student, I dutifully bent over, hung my butt out for everyone behind me to behold, and slapped the floor with all the style and lightheartedness that I could muster.
We went through this same series of steps a few times, giving me a chance to truly perfect my obscene thrusts, wiggles, and bodily flops. I was at the peak of my "dance like no one's watching" delusional delight. The world around me didn't matter and despite the fact that I'm a 6'0", 240 lb. man with a beard, I felt like I fit right in.
While bent over, slapping the floor demonstratively, I made the mistake of looking back between my legs at whatever was behind me.
Inverted and slightly dizzy, my eyes made contact with the face of the middle-aged woman behind me, who was staring straight at my abyss. She smiled and winked at me, just as the instructor directed us to fling our torsos back up into their full and upright positions. I felt the embarrassment sweep across my face and my eyes widen, unsure of what to make of what had just transpired.
Was she being friendly, confident, and platonic? Am I so ridiculous looking from behind, bent over and red-faced, that the only appropriate response is to flash an equally silly face back at me? Was I *gasp* being ogled?
The questions swirled through my mind as we prepared to complete the same set of moves one more time. I put both hands behind my head, thrusted my pelvis left-right-left, and decided to keep my face forward this time. No awkward second looks, no reestablished eye-contact, no problem.
Hands up, legs out, bend over, slap floor, look forward. There should have been no problem, except that the woman in front of me also chose that exact moment to look back between her legs and make eye contact with me. Once again, I found myself in the crosshairs of group fitness faux-pas.
Did she think I was checking her out? Am I going to have to awkwardly apologize for making eye contact later? Will I have to look at the ground in front of me for the rest of the course, terrified that my male gaze will be horribly misinterpreted? Why do people keep looking at me, through legs or not?
As quickly as the questions came, new moves forced me to remember which foot should go forward, which leg should go out, which arm should go up, or which foot I should be bouncing on next. I had no time to obsess over my mistakes.
The class ended and, thankfully, there were no awkward conversations about eye contact or backsides. Yet, I had to ask myself if this was truly something I wanted to do. I have enough feminist friends that I'm now acutely aware of how much my maleness can affect a situation. I try to stay on this side of being a creepy, stereotypical male, but we're all subject to the vicissitudes of awkward moments and wild misinterpretations.
Awkward moments are sort of my specialty. I have them all the time. My humor is predicated upon them and I'm exceptionally good at causing them with my friends, acquaintances, and loved ones. They're going to happen. It's inevitable. What's important is how I respond to them. I haven't always done this well, mind you.
Because of the nature of my job, with all the seasonal reshuffling of faces and scenarios, awkward moments pop up often. Each time, I try to remember how I responded the time before. If it worked well, then I go with that response. If it didn't, I'll try something different. Most of the time, I'm left with the realization that there are far more bad responses to choose from than good ones.
It can take time to figure out the best way to navigate the strangeness of human social interaction. I'm 35 and I should probably be a bit further down the road to being cool as a cucumber, but I'm not. I'm a work in progress. I'll always be a work in progress, trying to evolve into a better, less painfully awkward, more effective version of myself.
Perhaps you are as well. The truth of the matter is that no one pays as much attention to our missteps as we do. We're our own worst critics and we believe that the world around us is constantly watching our endless comedy of errors. They're not. They're all too busy starring in their own versions to notice every mistake we make. Enjoy your own performance. Try to make your short time on center stage a memorable performance. If you miss a line or miss a step, jump back in the line and try it differently the next time.
If you feel up to it, click "play" on the video below (sorry, not for mobile users), get up, and wiggle what the good lord gave ya. After all, what's the worst that could happen?
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