Monday, June 14, 2010
This last weekend was a gal's weekend with my mom and sisters down at the beach. It was Latin Fest at Virginia Beach and our hips were groovin' to Latin tunes pretty much the whole weekend. On Saturday morning I went on my standard long Saturday jog then hit the waves. It was June and it was beautiful and the water was. . frigid. But, I'd come to the beach and I was going to play in some waves,darnit. Everyone was kind of doing their own thing so I was all on my own, no kids to lather or buckets to lug. So after wading in a bit I took the plunge and quickly hollered out to anyone who would listen, "I AM ALIVE!" Whoo. It was quite a rush. Then I frolicked and dove and swam and really felt the joy of a strong, whole body. Then came Zumba. An hour of shimmying, kicking, hip-popping joy. If I'd been in a dance club as opposed to a big open field full of women in workout clothes, it might have bordered on inappropriate. But, as it was, all I felt was joy and movement and the thrill of having a body that in one morning had ran, swam, and danced. The final zumba instructor that took it home was a pistol. She grooved and shook pretty much everything God gave her and gave us all permission to have a wonderful time doing the same. And the best thing? She was so far from perfect. She jiggled and wobbled, and there wasn't a firm six-pack in sight. But who cared? Noone there, that's for sure. . and apparently she didn't either. It was liberating to watch her and to feel some of my own insecurities shake out as well. Who cares if I don't look like the girl on the cover of Runner's World? I have hips that groove and legs that run and the gumption to jump into very cold water. Who needs a six pack to "glorify God in your body"? Not me. Bring on the music.