Escapes: Dancing into Shape at Canyon Ranch

 Bye bye boot camp. Adios to the “no pain, no gain” philosophy. Fuhgeddabout feeling the burn. The latest fitness craze is all about ditching the workout and dancing into shape.

Zumba classes around the country are selling out. This dance-fitness program incorporates Latin-inspired hip-swiveling routines with bicep curls, knee lifts and squats choreographed to music that makes it impossible to sit still. The idea is to have fun—so much fun that you don’t realize your muffin top is dancing off your waistline.

To kick-start my Zumba classes, I signed up for a four-day dance-fitness program at Canyon Ranch, a sybaritic getaway in Lenox, Massachusetts, and convinced my friend Linda to join me. The mantra of this health mecca is that exercise isn’t drudgery or punishment for overindulging but something to look forward to, something pleasurable.

Initially this aging boomer found the idea of being surrounded by firm young bodies cavorting in clingy jersey to be a bit off-putting. Despite keeping an eye on my diet and walking enough miles on a treadmill to propel my fuselage to Miami, my jeans remain at half-mast. I needed to throw my body a curve and vacate my exercise rut. I wanted a mental makeover, too. While friends say I look good “for my age,” my youthful demeanor is locked in this foreign body. In my mind’s eye, I am ageless, like Betty Boop or Bugs Bunny, who look the same despite their years. But my reflection in department store mirrors says otherwise. Who is this person, anyway?

Packed with workout gear—and anxieties—we hopped on a train to Albany. A Canyon Ranch staffer greeted us at the station, handed us a snack sack and took us to the front door of the tony health and fitness resort.

It’s a Knockout
Situated on a snazzy 120-acre estate, the centerpiece of the complex is the historic Bellefontaine Mansion, a stone and marble structure that looks straight out of a fairy tale. The main building houses the original library, a massive fireplace, main dining room and a cozy café. A climate-controlled, glass-enclosed walkway connects everything to a state-of-the-art spa and fitness center so guests never have to worry about the weather conditions. Breathtaking vistas of rolling lawns and woods guarantee that there are no ugly views.

I loved the rules: no cell phones, no tweeting and no texting in public spaces. Such interruptions from the outside world are allowed only in guest rooms and in the lobby. No alcohol, either. Mocktails, creative concoctions of fruit juices and spices, are served on the rocks or straight up in the library before dinner.

We treated ourselves to a one-bedroom suite featuring a washer/dryer tucked in a closet and two full-size bathrooms. Subtle niceties reign—lavender-scented Italian pillowcases, extra headboard lights for nighttime reading, two flat-screen TVs and even a bonsai tree in the bathroom.

No “Dieting”
Pancakes or waffles with syrup for breakfast? You bet. Crab cakes, chicken and sausage gumbo or pizza are lip-smacking lunch choices. Dinners are gourmet experiences—Balsamic Glazed Chicken Breasts draped over Broccoli Rabe and Polenta, Arctic Char seriously slathered with Shrimp Cream Sauce or a fancy version of a classic, Lobster Macaroni and Cheese. We never felt deprived. Calories, fat and fiber grams are listed for each choice so guests know when they’re splurging. Dietary concerns, such as gluten-free, low sodium or vegan needs, and food allergies, no matter how unusual, are not a problem. The chef has seen them all, and is more than happy to accommodate any special requests and requirements.

We ate as much as we wished, including the occasional double dessert since portions for sweets are “petite.” (The 160-calorie Chocolate Zucchini Cake is so teensy I devoured it in three bites.) But, as delicious as it was, we didn’t obsess about the food. We were there to dance.

Getting in Motion
“Listen to the music. The music will tell you what to do,” urged Russell, our dance instructor. But I was feeling uneasy; I didn’t want to be the laughing stock of the class or get a blue ribbon for klutziness. However, with a few kind words and encouraging flashes of his megawatt smile, he calmed my fears.

“There are no mistakes in this class. Just move and have fun,” Russell insisted. I scanned the large mirrored room filled with gals and a few guys. Varying from spa junkies to newcomers, they came in an assortment of ages, shapes and sizes. I was not alone. Just like me, everyone there was coping with aging. As if reading my mind, Russell said, “One more thing: this not a competition. If you only remember one step, that’s one step more than when you walked in the door.”

The music began: “America,” from West Side Story. Russell led. We followed (or tried to follow). We laughed. We stumbled. We twirled, swirled and managed to avoid a few collisions. I tried to channel Oscar winning dancer Rita Moreno, but felt more like a Hee Haw regular instead.

Days were filled learning more dances to big band, hip-hop or jazz music, and squeezing in an occasional yoga or tai chi class. We relaxed. We schmoozed. We noticed the sky, trees and birds.  For four days our conversation centered on our dances rather than cellulite, Botox or doctor’s appointments. I didn’t fret about senior moments. Or my jeans. I forgot about my weed-ridden garden and house that needed painting. There were times when I thought my legs might give out, but I kept at it until I reached that glorious moment when I felt the music in my bones, just as Russell had said I would. I felt proud. I did it!

To soothe our aching muscles, each night after dinner we diverted to the spa where a fleet of therapies awaited. Sometimes we sat in the steam room where an herb vapor permeated the air; the bashful were in swimsuits, the brave went au naturale. On other nights we opted for more hedonistic pleasures such as the 110-minute detoxifying ritual, a house specialty. For it, my masseuse whipped up an aromatic concoction of coffee, olive stones and fresh lemons to exfoliate my body. I was buffed, polished and painted with a clay mask to draw out impurities, otherwise known as “personal toxic waste.” After lolling about in fluffy white robes, my friend and I walked to our room in silent bliss, exhausted but fulfilled.

Despite the challenge of learning several dance routines in four days, on our last night these two “women of a certain age” wrapped sarongs over our exercise gear, tucked flowers in our hair and performed in a guest recital. The audience cheered and hollered with no less enthusiasm than if we had opened on Broadway. Were we perfect? No way. Did we have a ball? You bet.

In the afterglow of our showbiz debut we joined the rest of the cast around the piano in a romantic cocktail lounge setting but the only flutes of fizz were those filled with sparkling cider.  A 70ish man sang “The Nearness of You” to his adoring wife. No one seemed to miss martinis; we were all high on the magic of the moment.

Back Home
Am I any healthier? Probably not. But I feel happier. My step is livelier. I am more mindful of portion size. I’ve slashed my coffee intake. I’m drinking more herbal tea. I dropped three pounds, despite downing double desserts and nightly nibbles. I’ve learned that it’s okay to do nothing, a rare concept for this Type-A workaholic. But some things don’t change. While I am trying to be more accepting of my “as is” body, I continue to avoid department store mirrors. Mostly, whenever I’m challenged to try something new, I’ve learned to embrace Nike’s theme:  Just do it.