So I thought I might try the hot new fitness craze called Zumba. I had heard rave reviews about it at my gym. The word on the street was that you practically had to "know people" to get a spot in the class. My gym even put a manager at the door of the aerobic room in case things got dicey. Women can get pretty nasty if you're fixing to take their "spot." I was getting more curious by the minute. My friends told me I would love it, and that I really should try it.

So I did. I got to the gym and secured a spot. My girlfriend Randa told me I should get a place in front of the mirror so I could see myself. What a big mistake that turned out to be.

The instructor came in, cheery and fresh from Florida, speaking with a charming Brazilian accent and a tight little body to match. Her jacket and gym bag were both embroidered with the word "ZUMBA!" in neon green. Ooh, I want a jacket like that! I was instantly envious.

She put on the music. There were at least 35 people in the class, all women and one brave man. She started warming us up, using traditional Salsa music. I like Salsa music, but I am more of a hip-hop kinda gal myself, much to the embarrassment of my kids. (Have you noticed that almost everything I do, say or enjoy is "much to the embarrassment of my kids"?)

Anyway, the Salsa music reminded me a bit of Polka music, and I was not feelin' it, but everyone else sure was. The instructor then got us going, doing some simple cha-cha-cha moves. Then out of nowhere came some incredibly difficult belly dance gyrations that threw me into what resembled a grand-mall seizure.

I tried my hardest to emulate her smooth, erotic swiveling, but my hips would not lie. They couldn't gyrate no matter what. It was as if my hips were missing a critical U-joint or something. I looked like an idiot! Thankfully, there was one other gal who looked even worse than me. Wow, if I were that girl, I would have faked an injury or something and gotten outta there! Hey, wait a minute. That is me!

Meanwhile, Randa was shimmying and swiveling and looking simply incredible. "How does she do it?" I thought to myself. "How does that instructor make it look so easy?"

The man behind me was snickering a bit as my face told the story of my complete and utter humiliation.

"Great. I sure am glad I grabbed this spot right up in front, facing the mirror, and in full view of everyone …" The only thing that could have made it any worse would be seeing my 14-year-old daughter and some of her friends walk in. All this time I've been trying to convince her that I'm cool.

The entire class was having a ball. Some ladies were whooping, others were shouting out "Aye-aye-aye!" I wanted to get out-out-out! I looked at the clock; only 30 minutes had gone by. The instructor sent us into another round of hip swivels coupled with extreme chest shimmies. Randa came over and asked me what the problem was. "Just let 'them' go; are you afraid?" "Them," of course, meaning breasts.

"Yeah, I am afraid!" I thought to myself. I paid good money for these babies! I'm not going to shimmy myself into the doctor's office for a repair job!"

At last, the cool-down. A Santana classic filled the room. "Oye Como Va." Now this I could handle. I finally glanced into the mirror and didn't see Napoleon Dynamite looking back at me.

There was no doubt that everyone else in the room had enjoyed themselves. There was exhilaration and joy on everyone's faces. The instructor had definitely done a great job.

As for me, hey, at least I gave it a try. But I think I'll stick to my good ol' step aerobics.

Aye-Aye-Aye!