I shall call her Giselle, because it seems appropriate.
She showed up nearly a year ago, long and lean and young. While I grimaced, she smiled. When I grunted and felt nailed to the ground, she flew. Where Giselle came from, I know not, but she doesn’t seem to belong with us.
A little background: I’ve been attending Zumba classes at the Y for many years. For the uninitiated, Zumba consists of — in their own promotional verbiage — low-intensity and high-intensity moves for an interval-style, calorie-burning dance fitness party. In my own words: an hour’s worth of a whole lot a shakin’ goin’ on. I started by attending the evening classes, which were filled with lines of determined post-work attendees who pumped, twerked and sweat as if preparing to outrun the hounds of hell. And then about four years ago, I switched to the daytime Zumba Gold, which might also be called Zumba Silver for the natural hair color of many of the faithful. It’s gentler and easier on the joints.
It’s a friendly group. Everyone has claimed their little piece of gym floor, and we generally know the names of those who exercise near us. We’re not young, but we’re not necessarily old, either, and if I don’t look at my reflection in the windows between the gyms, on some days I can believe that I almost look fierce when pumping, and almost appear filled with grace while executing my lateral moves. Almost.
And then Giselle appeared, a white swan mistakenly dropped into a pond filled with ungainly waterfowl, and any delusions that I had about my dancing prowess were gone. At first I assumed that she’d misread the group exercise schedule and would not be back again to taunt us with her perfection, but I was wrong. Giselle continues to periodically attend, and observing her, you can tell that she’s studied ballet in her past.
It’s also clear that there’s not that much past in her past, if you get my drift. Giselle’s arms and legs are so beautifully long and limber that she’s a danger to others, because it’s only a matter of time until someone gets knocked to the gym floor by a graceful and elegant hand if they haven’t already swooned from envy or from the rigors of attempting to compete with her form.
But speaking of being a danger to others, my own upper arm wingspan regularly creates gusts felt as far away as Skagit County, so who am I to talk?
C’est la vie!
You can read more Pat Detmer essays in her book “Laughing All the Way,” available on amazon.com, and can watch Pat dip and twirl at the Y. (No guarantees that Giselle will be in attendance.)
Detmer lives in Newcastle’s Olympus neighborhood.