Back in Connecticut and thinking about Zumba, so I found that my gym has one afternoon class every Wednesday at 6pm. As for the 8:30 and 10:00 morning classes…fugeddabowddit. Tennis takes much less energy that I can manage early in the day.

November 11th: Same drill, pretty much as before (—just me with 30 women. Crowded, tight black pants, swinging hips, all ages and shapes, various races—though no Spanish heard—and the instructor, slim svelte Lisa, on a dais, in front of mirrors with a headset and portable microphone, hands clapping above her head. I feel like I am on stage with a black-haired Madonna. But not yet one of her boy pets.

This was a bigger space, more room to move than in Florida at the Biltmore Hotel. Totally open. How DO those women remember the steps so quickly? Maybe they are repeated in the same order each week. This time I lasted the whole 45-minute lesson.

Thank God for my Miami Beach youth, meeting girl tourists at the hotels in the dance lounges. I still know a few cha-cha-cha moves and other Latin-flavored steps. It is much much fun, the music is loud and fast.

I am so focused on following Lisa and the adept women in the front line that I never think to look around and see how others are doing. Both rear rows were filled up by the time I entered class. I was stuck in the second row, totally viewable by all behind me. Not only am I standing out because I am tall and male, I am probably the oldest person in the room as well. Talk about being a minority.

When we were told to pair up, no one grabbed me. Eventually one brave lady was forced to be my partner. I showed her a few of my moves. (Wonder why so many others said no when I looked their way?)

But no one asked me to leave. No one laughed so loud I could hear. And no one said, “Nice going,” after class, nor patted me on the butt. Maybe that comes later. Next time I will wear a wife beater tank-top like Zumba’s creator, Berto Perez.