Well, as of 6:15 yesterday, at the underground 50th St. den of the fit and fabulous otherwise known as “chic-quinox” (thank you, AC!), I do! And I am absolutely hooked! For 45 sweaty minutes, I shook my “hips” and shimmied my “shoulders” to the tune of salsa, meringue and hip hop beats, all for the famed “leaner, longer bod” that Zumba! promises. Now, as a lassie from the Emerald Isle, I should probably stick to the jig and nothing but the jig. My grooving grace is less than fabulous, despite what I might think at 2:59 AM on Friday and Saturday nights when, while approaching last call at whatever Lower East Side dive I tend to find myself in by that point in the evening, I dance my nights away, truly convinced that I have more rhythmic clout than a Rockette. Or a Knicks City Dancer, like my Zumba! instructor, Cindya. (Seriously, I don’t mess around.)
But did I care? No way! I had a blast, I burned mad calories and I didn’t even think twice about the sad but true fact that my krumping looked like a spasm straight out of The Exorcist.
Pumpkin Pie’s got nothing on this Zumba!-ing machine!