As we’ve recently acquired a 24 hour fitness membership, Jason and I have taken to attending Zumba–a one-hour dance aerobics class that leaves us drenched in sweat and smelling like year-old unwashed socks. Despite that description, it’s high-intensity fun, and the hour flies by. Today, as we were waiting for the spin class to end, a hippie-looking chick (likely with the name Hawthorne Blackberry Dewdrop Meadow) floated up to where we were waiting in line and began pinching the parts of her stomach that showed between her shorts and her sports bra. I immediately became annoyed with her. This annoyance grew when we entered the classroom and she parked herself in front of me and began her stretching exercises. It’s not so much that I’m opposed to stretching, I just don’t know what the benefit is from bending at the waist and using one’s fingers to stretch one’s asshole and vagina. This is aerobics class, Buttercup Sunshine Peace Willow, not a gangbang. You’re not prepping the area for a Brazilian wax, Daydream Iris Patchouli. Plus, the room is mirrored, so no matter how desperately I tried to look away from Butterfly Freedom RayneFlower’s Porno Yoga, I couldn’t help but see it. Then, when class started, Fern Karma Sage Shalom completely blocked my view of the instructor and while the rest of the class was performing a mixture of Latin dance moves, she was languidly waving her arms and twirling like she was at Woodstock. My annoyance was compounded by the instructor’s occasional use of showtunes, which is my number one music hate, ranking above banjo hoedowns and clown rap. Get a large group of people together and have them sing an upbeat song about overcoming adversity and it’s the equivalent of aural torture for me. Chain me to a chair and force me to listen to nothing but showtunes for hours on end and I’ll confess to any crime. Any crime. Yes! I ate a grape at the grocery store! Yes! I scavenged the last of the icecream out of the freezer! Yes! I admit I purposefully antagonize tailgaters! I’ve done it ALL, just please make the music stop! The only way I’d ever watch Glee is if I’ve been tipped off that this is the episode where all of the cast members explode one note into the first song. Even then, it might be a struggle. So given that we were dancing to showtunes AND I couldn’t see the instructor’s cues through Windsong Ocean Mist’s interpretive dance of whalesongs in a tree, this really amounted to nothing more than an exercise in frustration. At least my hate muscle had an opportunity to flex.