Back from vacation, feeling fat and bloated.  Last night after work I trolled the internet for dance classes and found the Wheat Ridge Rec Center, the gym I’ve been using since Miranda’s postpartum days, offers a zumba class at a convenient time today.  (“Zumba! Ditch the work-out, join the party!”) 

Possessed with self righteousness and a fervor like it was January 1st, I lay myself at the feet of Kris, our zumba instructor.  Super tanned with a belly ring, spiky red hair with blond highlights, neon green mini skirt, and a Britney mic, she whipped me for an hour.  Twenty minutes in I looked in the mirror and saw that I was lobster-red and dripping sweat.  I don’t know how I made it through all of class.  Kris bounced over after class and invited me to keeping coming.  I told her it depends on whether I wake up paralyzed with muscle ache tomorrow, or if I can manage to grunt my way through my shift.  Zumba!