Zumba and pomegranate jam

Wesleyan University

In my past life, I loved to dance. (My past life being the one before marriage when I was thin and single and spent money on things like dance lessons rather than diapers.) But during my current life, I don't exactly have the time or financial means to pursue such things. So, Zumba will have to do. And actually it is a great alternative with plenty of benefits: 1) I inevitably leave drenched with sweat, which a great balance for my stress-induced chocolate binges lately; 2) I have plenty of "stuff" to shake, and shaking it is better than glaring at it in my bathroom mirror, right?; 3) I can pretend to have some sort of latin lusciousness for an hour instead of hanging out in boo-hoo, frumpy, neglected, self-pity city; 4) I get to yell really loud and sometimes punch the air and nobody cares because the music is super loud and they are all doing it too; 5) it's already included in my gym membership and child care is taken care of (score!); and 6) I get out of the house instead of following my instinct to crawl into a deep, dark, black hole and die. See? Lots of benefits. Definitely a win-win with the Zumba. I highly recommend it.

So ... I actually made it to a Zumba class today. It was a blast. I was moving, grooving, shaking, yelling, punching, sweating, and pretty much having a ball, except ... there was this gorgeous blonde in front of me. Now don't get me wrong. I don't usually judge people based on their hair color. Many people I love are blonde. But I am telling you, this girl was practically perfect in every way I could see, and it really started to bug me. Her perfectly-styled hair was down, so it swayed and thrashed with the music. Her curves were perfect. Her outfit was perfect. Her toned, tanned arms and lean body were perfect. She never missed a dance step. And she was directly in front of me. And as the class went on, I felt the hate well up inside me and grow until I began to gag on it. And then it hit me. It's her, I thought. It's the woman my husband cheated with five years ago. Now, let me clarify. This is a completely ridiculous and illogical thought. I now live on the other side of the country from my husband and both his mistresses that I know of. So it couldn't have possibly been her. Right? But the longer I danced, and the longer my eyes burned into the back of her perfect body and her luxurious blonde hair, the more panicked I became. In my mind's eye I could see the photograph of the woman as I had five years ago. She was nude, tanned, blonde, with her back turned toward the camera. I felt ill. It's not her. It's just a blonde girl in a Zumba class. My body pulsed with the beat of the latin music. I punched the air. I screamed with the rest of the class. But maybe too loud? Could they hear me? Even over the music? I pictured the blonde dancer standing in the middle of a night club using her latin moves to seduce unsuspecting married men. Don't cry. They'll see you. I began looking -- frantically -- for another spot on the floor. I had to get away from her. But there was nowhere to go. It's such a popular class. We were packed in, wall to wall. And nobody was willing to switch places. Keep moving, keep moving. Feel the beat. Just get lost in the beat. I HATE HER! Finally, 45 minutes into the class, I threw in the towel, literally, and stormed out the studio door, my heart racing from the emotional and cardiovascular impact. Breathe. I started a lap around the track to cool down. And as I walked out of the ring with my head down and my shoulders hunched, I felt totally and completely defeated. 

The main studio where Zumba is held is surrounded by glass walls, and the indoor track circles around them. So as I walked around the loop and cooled down, I glanced through the windows at all the sweaty people, all the smiling faces. I knew what I was missing. I also knew that I had to take back the control, so that's what I did. As I walked and cooled down I started thinking about something that might seem kind of funny. I started thinking about pomegranate jam. 

About a month ago, my girl Mac wrote a blog post about pomegranate jam that made me smile. Basically, the gist of it was that those of us who have been affected by porn view the world differently. We are sensitive to things that would seem insignificant to others. I would add that those of us who have been affected by porn and adultery view the world differently. (Hence, my little experience with Miss Blondie in Zumba class.) As the days passed and I watched the comments on that blog post evolve, I was impressed with Mac's final conclusion, and it has really stuck with me. Essentially, she said: "I wanted to show porn that it didn't own me!" And today as I walked around the track, watching all those people enjoying the class I had just walked out of, that is precisely the thought that came to my mind: "I want to show porn that it doesn't own me!" So, do you know what I did? I marched my booty right back in there. I planted myself right back in my original spot, behind my imaginary arch nemesis. I shook my stuff. I finished that class. I had fun. And that's not all. Nope. When it was all over, I introduced myself to Miss Blondie herself. And she was really nice. As it turns out, she wasn't my husband's mistress after all. And now I can go back to that class next week without worrying about facing her. Maybe I'll even make it the whole way through without a panic attack. 

And it's all thanks to pomegranate jam. Thanks, Mac. ;)