Alice Walker

Last Sunday, I experienced the wonderful world of Zumba for the first time.  

For those unfamiliar with Zumba, it’s essentially line dancing to pop and Latin music for the sake of getting in shape. Picture a square dance meets Sweatin’ to the Oldies meets a bar mitzvah in Colombia, and you’re starting to get the idea. This is “Cotton Eye Joe” and “The Cha Cha Slide” for the 21st century. And it’s good exercise, too.

For some reason, Zumba tends to be a female dominated activity. Maybe it’s because years of television have taught us that fat and ugly men inevitably end up with beautiful wives, and so men feel less inclined to exercise. Maybe it’s because some guys have a macho complex that makes them eschew cardio for weights. Or maybe it’s because for some reason guys don’t think they’re supposed to like dancing. Either way, men do not seem to do Zumba.  

Except for me. This kind of dancing feels just like camp to me, where every Friday night we’d Israeli dance. Girls changed into pants so nothing indecent would happen, and guys changed into skirts because, hey, twirling around in one is the most liberating thing in the world. Then we spent about 45 minutes working off dinner, with the extra motivation that I had to look sharp for Saturday lifeguard and tanning duty.

I didn’t wear a skirt to Zumba, I thought my thigh high running shorts would do the trick just fine.  But I did try to bring some of that spirit of freedom (read: being an attention-seeker) into class that day.  And so, I became the only male at Zumba.

This really shouldn’t have been a big deal, but I had had some previously negative experiences being the only guy in a group. Like when I was seven and dreams of being Chip in the stage production of Beauty and the Beast led me to enrol in acting classes. I was the only boy, I cried, and I quit. Or in grade three when I got stuck being the only boy in a group project. I cried about that one too. But now as a strapping 21-year-old, with a female friend-base nearby and my girlfriend Georgina for support, this was going to be nothing. There would be no tears today.

But there’s no accounting for the thoughts that swirled in my head. At first, there was a steady stream of “It feels so good to move,” transitioning into “Am I that obnoxious guy who can’t follow instructions and is ruining the exercise experience for all the girls?,” into “Uh oh, do all these girls think I’m some  pervert who’s just here to watch a room full of girls in tights shaking it?” I usually don’t think gender matters. But it was a bit hard to ignore at first.

Thanks to the power of the music, Zumba kept getting better. By the time we reached Pitbull’s “Calle Ocho,” my thoughts were gone as I happily shook my rump with the rest of the girls. Sure, I dance to the beat of my own drummer, and yes, that drummer tends to be offbeat, but that’s just the way I do. And I know I’m not there for the wrong reasons. We’re all people, and all people—male or female—have the right to get in shape by standing in line, marching side to side, moving their hips in a circle, and jumping back and forth with vibrating thighs to sweet Latin beats.

I’ll be going to Zumba again, and I encourage others to come too. Sometimes you just have to say goodbye to self-consciousness, let go of shame and pride, and just dance. Or if you prefer to do it at home, buy the videogame.