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I can’t decide whether she inspires me or scares me.įor the uninitiated, “NAC” (pronounced “knack”) stands for Newtown Athletic Club, a 250,000-square-foot fitness complex that commands a 25-acre swath of land in Newtown. She bares her teeth - literally, like a tiger - and every so often lets forth a primal yell. She’s a tiny firecracker, 47 years old, mom of five, in partially see-through black leopard-print leggings and a matching sports bra. The instructor, Rosalyn - known to her legions of followers as simply “Ros” - whips her long blond hair in circles. I’m somehow caught in the middle, always two moves behind and facing the wrong way, a tortoise in a stampede of spray-tanned gazelles. The two sides begin to shake their way toward one other, then seductively jump back, butts in the air and blowouts bouncing. To my horror, the attendees of this class - 112 women lined up like oversexed soldiers on an indoor basketball court - split in half and turn to face each other, like a West Side Story dance-off. Only it’s replaced by something far, far worse. I send up a small prayer that this part of the routine will end soon, and, praise be, it does. I’m not wearing a G-string, but if I were, I doubt I’d be making it disappear, as I’ve been in this Zumba class for 23 minutes and already my booty-shaking has become way less intense. I keep my eyes trained on the woman in front of me and try to mimic her movements: shimmy, shimmy, thrust, thrust, boob shake, BAM-slap-the-ground shimmy, shimmy, thrust, thrust, boob shake, BAM-slap-the-ground. This question, posed thoughtfully by the rapper Tyga in his song “Dip,” booms through the gym. “How you make a G-string just disappear?”