Don't Hate Me

Please don't hate me. I need to admit something and you need to promise not to hate me. If I weren't me, I'd probably hate me for admitting this. I do hate me rather a lot most of the time, anyway, so that doesn't make sense, but - DON'T HATE ME. And before I admit this, you need to know that I HATE yoga-freaks and all people who are good at exercising. Right. Don't hate me. I enjoy Zumba. Pardon? I enjoy Zumba. Can't hear you..speak up... I ENJOY ZUMBA. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Loser.

Zumba is currently the highlight of my week/life. I know that everyone's going on about it and that this fact alone should make me hate it even more....but I don't. I really enjoy it. When I first went (I'll need to check my LOYALTY CARD, here - DON'T HATE ME!), which was in fact only 9 classes ago (ONLY 9 SESSIONS? Fucking hell. I hate me.), I was entirely intimidated by the seemingly professional class-goers who knew all the moves and never sweated. But, for some reason, this didn't seem to matter and I danced my saggy arse off like a crazy person.I sweated profusely and arrhythmically. I grinned like a nutter. (The Zumba-ites avoided my gaze.) I couldn't actually stop grinning. (The other Zumba-ites moved further away from me and tutted in rhythm.) I then almost passed out against a wall after only 20 minutes. (The Zumba-ites danced over my seemingly lifeless body and then drank my blood.) Afterwards, I felt something weird and slightly sugary and almost pleasant...something I don't think I've tasted for a ridiculously long time.....errr....I can't remember how to spell it....errr...H..A..P..P..Y. Oh, the CHEESE of it. I know, I know. But, I felt really good. Isn't it funny how writing something positive feels almost embarrassing? I feel I must apologise for this positive interlude. I feel quite squirmy and uncomfortable....I think I'm breaking out in a rash. I HATE ME. 

Anyway, I'm going to say it loud and sort of proud, but without wearing any of the logo-emblazoned Zumba apparel EVER - I LIKE ZUMBA! Not in a dancing perfectly way, but in a sweating like a maniac on speed way. You know that Peaches song 'Fuck The Pain Away'? It's a bit like that, but replacing the 'Fuck' with 'Sweat'. Of course I've heard that bloody mantra about exercise and depression - exercise can be more effective at combatting depression than anti-depressants (yes, there are proper studies to prove it). And, well, that's just pissed me off in the past, because it's like someone saying 'you COULD feel better, if only you'd get your lazy ARSE out of bed and DO something about it', which, when you're in a low is totally, utterly, physically and mentally impossible. BUT, now I have managed to slowly gnaw through the billions of excuses barricading my way each Wednesday night and walk the 3 minutes down my road to sweat the pain away, I know that I've got to keep doing it...because, for now, it does help. So, err, hate me if you must, but getting a little bit of exercise seems to enable me to give less of a shit about that than I normally would and, more importantly, to hate myself less. Ner.