Deep-Fried Zumba

I have never met an American with a stove-top deep-fryer. Granted, I'm proud the yankees won the civil war, and I still believe in staying on one side of the Mason-Dixon line, which could explain the fact I have never met a person with a deep-fryer.

My entire dinner tonight was fried. Deep fried. In the kitchen, by my mother, in her stove-top deep fryer. 

So, I just ate fried eggplant with fried hake fish with fried french fries. So much olive oil. I considered pulling a napkin-dab but quickly realized the portion I could catch was insignificant to the overall quantity of grease involved in these foods.

They were fantastic. They overcompensated for the exercise I did today.

Normally, me and exercise are not said in the same sentence, unless the sentence is, "As usual, I did not exercise today. Actually, I have not worn sneakers in three months."

No, this is not something to be proud of. In a continued effort to be empowered by my Spanish life and a new effort to entertain myself during siesta, I joined a gym the other day just two blocks from mi casa.

The deal-sealer? Bi-weekly zumba classes.

To start on the right sneakered foot, I got out of a siesta daze at 6 PM to get a gym tour and join in a zumba class.

You never learn how to say 'obliques' or 'quadriceps' in Spanish class. Luckily, basic weight machines are intuitive and I am a great nod-and-smiler. For zumba, classes at Camp Ramah in Nyack taught me the basic cumbias, salsas, and bootyshakes. 

In a whirlwind of Spanish ladies screaming, jumping, twisting, and moving, I tried not to be timid and follow along. 

Naturally, after a full thirty minutes of box-stopping, hip-twirling, arm-swinging joy, my super pale face was bright red.

The instructor asked me if I was alright, was I breathing okay? Did I get it? Am I sure? She'd never seen anyone so red.

Wow. Thanks. I'm fine. I'm just naturally white as they come and don't have flamenco in my feet and salsa in my hips and haven't been subsisting on a deep-fryer diet since birth. 

I survived. I think I did great. I'm going back pronto. And I have no reason to be embarrassed about my flushed cheeks and jumbo water bottle. I'm just glad I'm motivated enough to wear socks for once.