All Wet

It’s official.  I’m a humorless curmudgeon. Maybe not all the time, but I have my moments.
One of those moments came this morning at the YMCA.

I was a little late to what I thought would be my regular water aerobics class, which as I keep pointing out to anyone who will listen, can be quite a workout if you actually do everything with gusto.

I’ve written about an experience mirroring today’s before, but today’s horror was profound enough that I need to vent once again.

I opened the locker room door to be hit in the forehead by a blast of music ricocheting off the tile walls surrounding the Y’s pool. A woman in lime green shorts, fuchsia T, and backward lime green baseball cap was gyrating at the pool edge. An assortment of gray, white, and late-in-life blond heads bounced in semi-time to the music.

Pool Zumba.

I paused in my stride, reconsidering. Still, I was there, I was already in my swimsuit, and last night’s chocolate covered almonds were weighing on my conscience, along with a few other places.

Let just say that frenetic enthusiasm isn’t enough to win over my cold, cold heart. Grandmothers and the few grandfathers around me smiled and hooted gamely, but I just wasn’t feeling it. Sure, I like pelvic thrusts as much as the next person, but they don’t translate into much of a workout in four feet of water. What exercise I did get was from my fast footwork of trying to follow a routine that moved too quickly to accommodate the concept of water resistance.

Give me back my jumping jacks, jogging, and pool noodle any day.