Zumba'd my ass off this evening. Terribly concerned I may not be able to walk tomorrow. Furthermore, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall mirrors in the studio, I now know exactly what I look like when I go out and dance in what I believe to be a sexy and attractive way. I had no idea that my lack of co-ordination was so obvious. Nor did I know just how wide of the mark my interpretation of 'sexy' was.
(Admittedly, my zumba class was not fuelled by a dangerous cocktail of vodka and Jägerbombs as so many of my nights out are, so at least I can comfort myself in the fact that presumably by the time I'm ready to dance, all self-awareness has left the building.)
It was, however, just a little bit awkward to recognise several of my key dancefloor moves popping up in over-enthusiastic zumba routines.
Accidentally emailed the PGBF a veritable essay of a Facebook message yesterday, going into greater detail about the Boy's somewhat chequered romantic past and his New Year's Eve shenanigans. His reply was to the point. "Ignore any previous thoughts of mine and just delete his number, contact details, Facebook friendship." To be honest, contact with the Boy has all but petered out. Trying to be nonchalant about it; sometimes I even convince myself that I don't care.
On the plus side, my dance partner is speaking to me again, and we have university friends coming to stay with us. I am anticipating an expensive and often drunken week.
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