Don't break a hip when you hop

I almost died last night.

Somehow, Connie convinced me to go to a dancey exercise class thing with her.

Yes. I said dancey and exercise.

She must have caught me in a weak moment.

She told me there were usually about five or six people. Mostly middle-age and "figure-challenged". OK, cool. I'm the poster child for that group.

Ummmm, last night there were almost 30 people.

Including an older gentleman who I was certain I could out-dance. Bring it Pops. Then he took off his sweatshirt and revealed his 28-pack abs and major buffy arms. Humph.

It was a really odd mix of people. Really. Odd.

I'm still not sure what we did.

An hour of hip-hop, Latin, jive dancing stuff with a lot of "SHAKE IT! SHAKE IT! SHAKE IT!" mixed in.

Huh? I'm supposed to do WHAT with my WHAT?

Call the paramedics.

Oh and there were plenty of body rolls. People, the only roll on my body is the one right around my middle, affectionately known as my Food Baby.

I was reminded that I am an out-of-shape, middle aged white woman with no rhythm. And I apparently can't count to three. Or tell the difference between my left and my right.

But it was fun. I think.

Word.