I Jazzercise twice a week. A few months ago the class began in the church right next door to me. As a lackadaisical exerciser, I figured this was God’s way of saying “You now have no viable excuse not to exercise.” Even with a morning yoga class a block away, I nearly always turn over when the alarm buzzes to rouse me for class.
But Jazzercise is different. It’s at a sane time of 6:00 p.m. And it’s literally 20 feet from my house. It couldn’t be closer unless the instructor came into my exercise room — which really should be called my “exercise equipment storage room.”
The instructor is a big part of why I attend. He inspires me to keep coming back. Notice I say “he” — there aren’t many male Jazzercise instructors, at least not in my city. He’s 55 and not only cute, with a goatee and shoulder-length dreadlocks, but his buff, 6’4″ lithe frame is chiseled from his 2-times-a-day classes. His wonderful bass voice sings harmony to the music. His easy smile lights up the room and makes the workout less odious.
Needless to say, sometimes it’s difficult to focus on the dance moves. As he shakes his taut tush in his skin-tight jazz shorts and shirt, I get distracted. Sometimes I screw up the steps. His mocha skin reminds me of some of the yummy guys I’ve dated — past and present — and I can’t help myself. I start fantasizing about their smooth skin, toned booties, rippling muscles, kisses, and … I’m grapevining left when everyone else is cha-chaing right.
I continue to attend, even though I have this tendency to trip over my own libido. As long as I don’t start drooling, the gals in the class understand.