With apologies to Naomi Shihab Nye

{Probably a disrespectful response to one of my favorite poems.}

Before you know joy as the deepest thing inside, you must know a YMCA Zumba class as the other deepest thing.

You must march the maze of hallways alone, guided only by a screechy teenage chorus of basketball shoes, until you find the right gym.

After claiming the least-visible back row spot, you must work tirelessly to stay on-beat and on-rhythm under the watchful eye of a volleyball stuck high in the rafters, like Wilson in Castaway benevolently watching a room of white women trying to survive a thumping song comprised entirely of squat moves.

You must try, and fail, to execute sexy body rolls while dancers in the front look like they just shimmied off a Beyoncé video set.

You must feel your dignity dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth, flailing alongside your back row neighbor: an elderly, bird-boned woman with immaculate hair who grinds impressively to a censored version of OutKast’s “Hey Ya.”

You must stubbornly glance away from the instructor, who tries to make intense eye contact and occasionally points at different class members, kissing her fingertips like an Italian chef particularly pleased with certain pasta creations.

Then it is only Zumba that makes sense anymore, only Zumba that supplies your weekly endorphins, and sends you out into the world with Pitbull songs in your head you didn’t even know you knew — only Zumba that forges firm quads to carry you everywhere, like a buffalo or a friend.