The agony of the abs

Last night I darkened the doorstep of my bellydance studio for the first time in, ahem, five weeks. I know, I KNOW: the classes are so blasted expensive that it's stupid to miss one, much less four. But shit happens. I was out of town, sick, out of town, and on vacation - couldn't be avoided.

Anyways, we started to learn, or for all I know, perfected what everyone else had been practicing for the past four weeks, a belly roll. Despite my (unfortunately) impressive gut, it does not seem to want to roll. In fact, it's downright intransigent on the matter. At best, it heaves. It shudders. But there is no rolling action, nor is there any "popping" (another move that I ended up watching everyone else do more or less beautifully while I flailed off in the corner).

Besides the damage to my ego, last night's dance class did horrendous things to my abs. You'd think that eating cheese 24/7 for a solid week would have given them something of a workout, if only the stretching kind. Yeah, as it turns out? Not so much. My lower abs are not very happy with me. If I were smart, I'd immediately hit the gym and attend every morning Pilates class possible in order to whip them into shape. But as a very frustrated Alitalia gate agent could tell you (I denied having a paper ticket while checking in at Fiumincino in Rome Sunday, sending her on a ten-minute goose chase until I realized that, whoops, ha ha ha, I actually did have a paper ticket), intelligence is not my strong point. I'll just suffer in dance class - why should that change?

I do love it though. My dream is to eventually work out a routine to Natasha Atlas' remake of a Screamin' Jay Hawkins song, "I Put a Spell on You." If that song doesn't want you to get your groove on, you are clearly dead inside.