The Art of Belly Dancing

E and I vowed to start eating better and exercising. Then she caught me at the dollar store buying candy. So the eating better part isn’t going so well. We did, however, sign up for belly dancing lessons.

We’re not sure why we did it, either.

The brochure advocates its health benefits while being a “low impact” workout, yet I sweat so much that it looks I’ve run a marathon at the end, and all we’re doing is shaking our hips. I am in such good shape.

E is probably the best person to do the class with, though, as she doesn’t take herself too seriously and can have a laugh at how ridiculous we look. And, believe me, we do.

Case in point: I hunch over and shake my legs during the hip shimmy. E punches the air. E yells out in the class in enthusiasm, only to realize that no one else is cheering with her. Including me. And we both run into each other as we glide (read: march) around the room and then laugh hysterically to each other. Who needs a teacher? We basically run the class with our hilarity.

We do, however, have a teacher, who I’m fairly certain is high every time she comes to class (in a belly baring top, no less), which is further evidenced as she tells us to feel our fat and let it jiggle. Um, there is a reason why I am in an exercise class. It’s to get rid of the jiggle. I’d rather not let it go and risk taking out the fragile looking girl beside me whose waist is the size of my leg.

I knew we were in for an interesting ride when our teacher asked us to sweep the air with our arm, bringing it down across our faces and towards our vaginas. Yes, vaginas. I was seriously concerned that “belly dancing” was a new found term to disguise “lesbian support group” and that we were going to have to start inspecting our own hoohas and comparing them to each other’s.

That, thank God, was not the case. But the number of times in class that she mentions anything to do with lady parts is seriously disconcerting…

Perhaps boxing would have been a more appropriate choice.