Zumba-wumba.

I swear I saw Missy Elliott pull some of these moves.

This week I bravely ventured into my first Zumba class. I've heard this "Zumba" name bandied about for some time, but wasn't really sure what I was getting into. Was it dance? Was it aerobics? Was it martial arts and I'd need to hold a stick? I couldn't care less. I needed to hit the gym - it's been a while - and I knew I couldn't be trusted to run my own workout (read: peace after 20 minutes on the elliptical while watching "Fresh Prince").

So to Zumba I went. It was easy to spot the instructor: he was the little Latin sensation with bike pants, a tight toosh and a t-shirt that said "ZUMBA!" on it. He sashayed in with a puffed up little chest and gave us a pitiful introduction. He just flipped on the music, which was kind of amazing in a Ricky Martin "Cup of Life" kind of way, and hopped to it, assuming we'd follow along with his little Peter Pan feet and find the beat somehow, someway. I only bumped into someone once.

The next 60 minutes flew by, and this is coming from someone who (shamefully) loathes exercise. Picture loads of hip popping, box stepping, stomping-and-clapping (which couldn't have burned many calories) and step-ball-changing, which I remembered from my days at Center Stage. But the coolest part were these moves we did where we jerked our heads and ribcages in opposite directions to drumming and these strange motions in which you plie while digging an imaginary grave. It was all very "Get Yr Freak On."

Dare I say it, I'd actually go again.

So tell me: What exercise class keeps you from cutting-and-running?