I got a Jones in my bones

That would be a "Jones Fracture" of the fifth metatarsal.

This is also known as "Dancer's Fracture" because it is very common among dancers.

Guess how I got it? Yup. Zumba.

For those of you who are regular readers of this blog, you will remember that I described Zumba as "salsa and rumba on cocaine, with a bit of Shakira and Beyonce thrown in."

Looks like I should have added less salsa to my Beyonce.

You know, at the second session , our instructor, Cathy, started the class (well, after she got our attention by yelling, "Brooklyn in da house!") by saying that we needed to have a very brief "sneaker discussion."

Don't wear them, she said. Get "dance shoes" or "training /fitness shoes," she said.

So, by the third class, I did. Puma. Lovely cocoa color with dark brown accents. On sale. With an additional 20% off as part of the store's own little version of the 'stimulus plan' for retail shoppers.

Love 'em. Apparently, however, I didn't get 'em soon enough.

It's either that or nothing can really protect you when you over-rumba your Shakira. Hips don't lie. Neither, apparently, do fifth metatarsals with a stress fracture.

Yes, I'm going to continue to Zumba. Of course. Doc said it's okay. I LOVE it. It's the BEST cardio-work out I've had in a long time. I gotta tell ya that I SWEAT when I'm in there. My face gets RED. And, I laugh and laugh and laugh and I feel sexy (well, as long as I don't look in the mirror) and my body feels GREAT afterward.

The next morning is another story altogether. Zumba kicks my butt. Big Time. But, even that is getting better.

It's not bad, really. It only hurts when I walk - and not at all when I wear the brace. Oh, yeah, I have to wear this "sports" brace for my ankle and foot for the next 4-6 weeks. Big, ugly, black thing. And, always, always when I Zumba. I won't need surgery or anything, thanks be to God, which apparently can happen over time.

You know, in a weird kinda way, this is like a Medal of Honor in the Battle of the Buldge. Like I've earned a "Black Ankle and Foot Brace of Courage." A real distinction, of sorts.

I have a "Dancer's Fracture". I've been telling everyone who asks and even some who don't. Fancy that. I must be a Dancer. Me!

I feel sort of, oh, I don't know, grown up in a strange sort of way.

I have my own wee cottage (well, me and Ms. Conroy and the Bank for the next few years), an Accountant, a Personal Trainer, and now, a Dancer's Fracture.

Go ahead. You can laugh. It's really strange what happens to your psyche once you've passed the double-nickle speed limit on the Superhighway of Life.

You just wait and see.