Last Saturday, while enjoying coffee in the kitchen after dinner, Sis nonchalantly asked if I’d like to try Zumba with her. Now, my initial reaction was explosive laughter – then I realized she was serious. For those of you who don’t know, Zumba is fast-paced dance aerobics set to Latin music. I am not fast-paced nor Latin. My laughter was justified. When I regained composure, I realized she was serious and I said, “Oh. Well. Uhm. Wow. Zumba? You know I’m old, right?” She scoffed and said, “Kristin, we used to CLOG for crying out loud! If we can clog, we can Zumba.” I gently reminded her that when we began clogging we were 18 and 15. We aren’t those ages anymore. And I’m at risk for hip fractures now. She shrugged and said, “Oh fine. I’m going to do it whether you do or not.” I took that as a challenge. Probably wasn’t meant that way, but I took it that way. Because I hear osteoporosis can make you paranoid and delusional. (Just kidding. I made that up. Please don’t go to your doctor with that information.) Anyway, I then, in a fit of what can only be described as post-dinner grandiosity due to excessive coffee consumption, agreed to attend Zumba with my younger and significantly thinner sister.

But there was a caveat: I was only paying for one class to start. It’s cheaper to commit to and pay for 20 classes at a time, but I am not 100% convinced I won’t perish during the first one. To save my children from feeling obligated to attend the very Zumba classes that resulted in their mother’s demise, I explained that I will only pay for one class at a time until I’m sure I won’t indeed die. My kids know that if I have paid for it, I am getting every penny out of it. If that means me haunting them from beyond the grave to ensure my Zumba investment is seen through, so be it. And I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on my kids since they’ll all be pretty busy mourning me and stuff.

I had plans to go to the gym with one of my best friends on Monday after work and Zumba with Sis on Tuesday. My gym bag (it’s not even really a gym bag – it’s a grocery tote. I am obviously much more prepared to buy food than I am to work out) was packed and sitting next to my purse. I went to bed Sunday night full of a weird sort of anticipation. When I woke up on Monday morning, my waking thought was, “Which one hurts worse—head or back?” because I genuinely couldn’t tell. My sciatic nerve was blazing a trail of white-hot pain from my lower back all the way to my ankle. My head was throbbing. I didn’t care that it was 5:45 a.m., I dialed the chiropractor’s number. I dialed it repeatedly until 8:30 when someone answered and scheduled me an appointment for 9:30. He is a blessed man with super-human spinal manipulation abilities and made the headache go away and the burning pain dull some.

The next day I stayed home from work and laid on the heating pad in an Aleve-induced fog. I text a massage therapist recommended by my hair stylist who immediately said DO NOT USE HEAT. Doh. So much for that. She wrangled me a cancellation appointment for 6 that evening. She is a tiny, blessed human being with enough power in her tiny little thumbs to possibly hurtle semi-trucks into the air. I’m pretty sure she touched my belly button by way of my spine at a few points, but by the time I left, the burning was a mere shadow. She also worked on my tailbone (THAT was weird and unpleasant) which had been out for two years, so that was a bonus. While I missed out on Zumba this week, I feel that sitting on a pillow made for tailbone support (as I am right now as I type this) was a better choice. Because I’m old and apparently my body was telling me to know my place this week.

Next week’s column *should* be entitled “That Time I Tried Zumba.” And if you don’t see it here, check the obituaries.

Born a semi-diva and married to a redneck, through the magic of osmosis or just because of a serious lack of sophistication over the years, Kristin Hoover has found a balance of the two that makes her what she is today.