In my quest to lose the remaining baby weight that requires me to fasten my pants with a jerry-rigged hair band, I’m trying anything. So last night, I stood in the back right corner of the Zumba room at my gym and sweated to the beat of A Man Named Victor. Depending on who you talked to, Victor is either a revered genius, a samba-ing Joel Osteen-meets-Ricky Martin, or a really terrible teacher.
Pro-Victor: Women were lined up early, squealing to tell me how I lucky I was to be there, as the regular teacher was absent and a sub was teaching.”VICTOR IS THE BEST, OMYMYGOD YOU CAME ON THE BEST NIGHT!”
Anti-Victor: After shaking her head in disgust and grapevine-defiance for 25 minutes, the woman next to me literally stormed out of the class after telling me that “THIS is NOT Zumba.” She assured me that the truest, purest form was only to be achieved on Friday nights at 6:30 with Jessica. This sentiment was backed up by another woman, who interestingly enough was one of the women who, just minutes before, assured me I was in for the best 55 minutes of my life. A Victor defector.
I may never know who was right. I may never know which side of the fence I stand on. The only thing I DO know is that Victor was wearing this: