Cynicism and the Jazzercise Jiggle

I’m going to tell you a couple of things about myself that you may not know. One, I consider myself something of a recovering cynic. I come from a long line of stalwart observers who often found it easier to point out what was wrong with the world (albeit in a clever and humorous way, at least in my case) than to risk the possibility that others might see their soft underbellies and take advantage. My family has always been more oriented toward suspicion and skepticism than bright optimism. In the Depression Era, people with this mentality were known as survivors. Today, they are known as media critics.

Early Roman Cynic, thinks his thighs look "squishy"
Early Roman Cynic, thinks his thighs look “squishy” without the drape

Sometime in my late twenties, I made the semi-conscious decision that I was not going to carry forward this legacy of hyper-vigilant negativity. That decision may or may not have been related to a divorce that was at least 80% my fault. Anyhoo, la-la-la, happy things…. My humor can still have a bit of a biting edge to it, and maybe that’s okay; but I say I’m a ‘recovering cynic’ because I try not to let it affect my outlook or choices too much.

The second thing you may not know about me is that I love Jazzercise. Love, love, looooove it. See? I can say that, because I’m not cynical and too cool for school anymore. I know when you hear “Jazzercise” you think of this, and you’re only half wrong. It is a bunch of ladies of all ages (they accept male participants, too, I’ve just never seen one in any of my classes) dancing in a combination of jazz, aerobic, and a few other dance styles as a workout. I have to admit I really enjoy it, and I do like most of the music. It’s one of the only places I will force myself to tolerate Maroon 5.

I’ll concede, Jazzercise is make-funable in an Olivia Newton John sort of way, especially because there’s nowhere to hide in a Jazzercise class. There are no hulking weight machines, treadmill rails or spin bikes to take the focus off  your body and your ability (or lack thereof) to follow the moves with some amount of coordination and rhythm. You’re standing next to people, chatting, and then the music starts, and you’re trying to keep up and remember what a ball-change is. And also, not fall down. That’s a biggie, at least for me.  Anyone who has met me in person knows that my dancing skills are almost as bad as my singing, which is awful. Really, really awful. So I just try to stay upright, sweaty, and moving generally in the same direction as everyone else.

The past couple of months actually comprise my third go-round with Jazzercise. I signed up for a few months right after college (in the 1990’s), then again after our first son was born, until it didn’t work with my schedule. Now I’m back and this time around has undoubtedly been the most fun. Why? you ask. Thank you for asking!

It’s because this time around, I decided to unleash the jiggle.

Up until now, I’ve been the person who, in any exercise class, prefers to stand near the back, near a wall, or preferably both. When the moves required jumping, hoisting your arms, or shaking your booty, I generally did so half-heartedly, if at all. I didn’t like the way my body looked during these activities, plus there was the unwanted exposure of potentially looking silly or messing up in front of people. These feelings are actually a holdover from the sixth grade dance, where everyone stands along the wall, not wanting to call attention to themselves, while wearing the most expensive piece of clothing they’ve owned up to that point.

Incidentally, here’s my summary of the sixth grade dance:

I can’t go out there. No one is dancing. I would literally rather die than be the first person on the dance floor. Okay, now people are dancing, but they’re just teachers. They don’t count. Now the teachers have pulled some people out to dance with them. I bet those kids wish they were dead. Oh, hey, it’s that guy I can’t stand, looking horrified. Yay. Wait, there goes the guy I can stand. I can stand him a lot. Well, obviously I can’t dance in front of him. Now he’s dancing with someone else. I kind of want to go out there but there is a 120% likelihood that I will humiliate myself and he will hate me forever. Better hang here and pretend to be interested in a conversation with my friends, which is exactly the same conversation we’ve been having for three weeks. About how much the dance sucks, and what will we possibly wear to the sucky dance. Except now we’re here and we’re wearing it. Okay, fine. I will dance as soon as there are enough people that I can hide among them. And I will wait for a better song.  Not that song. Not that song. They have pizza? Okay, I will dance after pizza. Now the pizza is gone and everyone is dancing to a song that everyone likes. Okay. Here goes. [steps onto dance floor and is elbowed in the head by cute boy, who laughs and says ‘sorry dude,’ and is now holding hands with cute popular girl].  I suddenly have to go to the bathroom. Will someone come with me? Back to wall. Look at how ridiculous everyone looks. I’m not going out there again like some kind of sheep. I’m going to stand over here and brood. Obviously that makes me cool, and protects me from ridicule. Except I’m pretty much alone. Guess I will go back out with my friends and dance in a circle. [2 minutes pass]. It’s over? Already? This sucks.

So that’s where it comes from. Well, that and my natural inclination to cynicism (see above), which is just an intellectual word for being able to suck the fun out of anything by pretending to be smarter than everyone else. One of the things about being a cynic, or a critic, is that it prohibits you from really doing anything yourself, because to do so is to risk losing your standing to ridicule others. You can’t deride people for making asses of themselves if you yourself have also been an ass. If you put yourself out there, chances are you are going to make mistakes just like everyone else. It’s why movie critics don’t direct and literary critics don’t publish. And it’s why this uncoordinated writer always danced near a wall. My words, I could put out there. My bat-wing arm fat? Not so much.

So what’s changed? Maybe it’s having two kids, who have helped me realize that I really have no standing to call anyone else an ass (or a bad parent, or ridiculous, or eccentric, etc.); and who have taught me to really value any time I get to myself. If I’m going to sneak out at five a.m. or drag them to the childcare room so that I can have 60 minutes of me-time, dammit, I’m going to make the most of that time. Why half-ass something that you have fought so hard for? Plus, the moves that make certain parts of my body jiggle are the same moves that will help those parts firm up and get stronger. Maybe more jiggling in the Jazzercise studio means less jiggling, and more breathing, elsewhere.

Or maybe I’ve just realized that it doesn’t matter. Whether I park safely in a corner or hop right up on the front row, no one is judging me. They’re all to busy trying to go the right direction and not fall down themselves. No one cares if my arm fat jiggles during this move, or my sizable rear end keeps moving for a second after I stop that one. They don’t care if I get the moves wrong sometimes or have to stop to catch my balance. And even if they did, what does it matter? We’re all hurtling toward the infinite blackness of death anyway.*

Might as well dance.

“Masters, remember that I am an ass;
though it be not written down,
yet forget not that I am an ass.”

——————————–

*It’s just possible that I have not entirely purged myself of bleak, cynical thinking. Eh. Screw it.

 

 

MJ Pullen

M.J. Pullen is a distracted writer and the mom of two boys in Roswell, Georgia, where she is absolutely late for something important right now. Her books include quirky romantic comedies and playful women's fiction. She blogs erratically with writing advice, random observations, and reflections on raising very loud kids and dogs. Join her Distracted Readers newsletter list for updates, free content, giveaways and more.

One thought on “Cynicism and the Jazzercise Jiggle”

  1. Southern Ladies Don't Sweat - MJ Pullen

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