Someone once wrote, “Diversity is not about how we differ. Diversity is about embracing one another's uniqueness.” Obviously this person has never taken an aerobics class in Italy.

Having just permanently lowered my self-esteem and forever branded myself with the label “loser”, I can ardently say that I will never embrace the innately strange movement and dance routines that embody the Italian aerobics class.

To begin with, I showed up to class somewhat nervous. I have never been proficient with any type sidestepping or touch-ball-changing. Nor am I very gifted when it comes to coordination. But putting those disadvantages aside, I do have a good sense of humor about me and generally don’t give up easily. But as they say, never speak too soon.

There were only 5 of us. Four Italian women and one awkward American. First let me elaborate on the dress code of the aerobics class, which I certainly didn’t know about and unquestionably don’t ever hope to reproduce on myself. The women all wore close to nothing: Sports bras with no support, shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination (including underwear color) and pounds and pounds of makeup. I don’t mean to generalize here—I do not want to claim that all Italian women dress this way, but apparently my aerobics class attracted a special breed of ladies.

Now for the teacher--complete in spandex shorts that were so short it appeared as if he was wearing nothing under his t-shirt (maybe he was a Scot at heart). He was all that one could ever hope for in an aerobics instructor. You know, the energetic type that make you feel guilty for taking an extra sip of water, the type that sing the lyrics loudly into the microphone, the type that seem to carry out every task with ease and expect you to as well.

The class began easily enough—some arms raises and knee bends, nothing too out of the ordinary. But then the shit hit the fan. The instructor began by demonstrating this enthralling new dance he created (he’s speaking solely in Italian—another debilitating factor) and wanted everyone in the class to try it. It was rumored to have done wonders for the thighs.

Having blocked it from my memory, I can only recall tidbits of the intricate dance: spinning in circles, arms raised overhead, pausing midst motion sickness to salsa left and salsa right, marching up and down to the beat, smiling broadly. I made it about two spins before I began to feel ill and completely out of my element.

I gave the instructor a pained look, something along the lines of “Please help me” and got no sympathy. It was as if the shorts were cutting off the circulation to his heart, disabling him from feeling any type of empathy for this confused American. The only sign of recognition that I received from this stern little man was the phrase “Va Bene?” which means something like “Is it good?” “Going well?” He constantly and condescendingly shouted this across the room at me, already knowing the answer to his question. No, it wasn’t going well.

So after many unapologetic shrugs from my instructor and many stomach lurches from my tummy, I decided that I needed to leave and that I would never be coming back. I stacked my step loudly and ran out of there, never looking back at my shame that surely still resides in that dance studio.