Sweat & Glitter: A Love Letter to the Tuesday Night Crew (And The Magic of Getting Ugly)
There is a specific smell that hits you when you walk into the studio on a Tuesday night. It’s a mix of floor cleaner, cheap body spray, dry shampoo, and hard work. To anyone else, it might smell a bit gross. To me? It smells like freedom.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about "aesthetics." We live in this hyper-curated world where everything needs to be "Instagrammable." We see the "Clean Girl" aesthetic on TikTok—slicked-back hair, matching beige workout sets, green juice, not a bead of sweat in sight. It’s aspirational, I guess. But it’s also sterile. It’s performance art, not real life.
My Tuesday nights are the opposite of the "Clean Girl" aesthetic. They are messy. They are loud. They are chaotic. And they are absolutely beautiful in their ugliness.
I want to talk about the "vibe" of a dance fitness class, specifically the one I found at FitAndJoy, because I feel like we don't talk enough about the sensory experience of it. We talk about "burning calories" or "toning legs," but we rarely talk about the way the bass vibrates in your chest or the way the lights reflect off the mirrors when the room gets steamy.
The best part of any recurring class is the cast. If you go to the same slot every week, you start to notice the regulars. We don't necessarily know each other’s surnames, or what we do for a living, or who we voted for. But we know how we dance.
There’s "Front Row Brenda." (That’s not her real name, but it fits). She is always there ten minutes early. She wears neon. She knows every single step of choreography better than the instructor. She adds extra hips to everything. She is living her absolute best life, and honestly, I want to be her when I grow up.
There’s "The Hoodie Guy." He comes in wearing a giant hoodie, stands near the back, and barely looks up. You think he’s going to hate it. But the second a reggaeton beat drops, the hoodie comes off, and the man has rhythm that puts us all to shame.
Then there’s the "Stressed Moms Club." They rush in at 6:59 PM, looking frazzled, phones in hand, checking last-minute texts. You can physically see the tension in their shoulders. But by 7:15 PM? The shoulders have dropped. The phones are forgotten. They are screaming the lyrics to a Pitbull song and high-fiving each other.
And then there is me. The one in the middle, usually wearing a t-shirt that is too big, trying desperately not to trip over my own feet during the grapevine.
For me, the gym was always a sensory deprivation tank. You put your headphones in to block out the world. You stare at a TV screen on the elliptical. You disassociate.
Dance fitness is the opposite. It demands that you associate. It demands that you be present.
It starts with the sound. The volume is always just a little bit too loud, in the best way possible. You can feel the kick drum in the floorboards. When a song like "Danza Kuduro" comes on, the energy in the room shifts instantly. It’s Pavlovian. We hear the opening synth chords, and suddenly we aren't tired anymore. We aren't thinking about the electricity bill or the awkward email we sent earlier. We are just moving.
Then there are the lights. At our studio, they dim the main overheads and turn on these colored party lights. This is crucial. It turns the space from a "fitness room" into a "club." But a safe club. A club where no one is trying to buy you a drink, and no one is spilling beer on your shoes. The darkness gives you permission to let go. You feel less exposed. You can shake your hips a little harder because you know nobody is really watching you—they are too busy watching the instructor or themselves in the mirror.
And yes, there is the sweat. I call it "glitter." By the third song, everyone is glistening. Hair is frizzy. Mascara is running. Faces are bright red. In any other context, we would be mortified to look like this in public. But in that room? It’s a badge of honor. It means we are working. It means we are alive.
The Emotional Release of a "Scream" Song
Every class has that one song. You know the one. It’s usually high-tempo, maybe a bit aggressive, or super joyful.
The instructor will usually shout, "Make some noise!" And we do. We whoop. We cheer. Some people actually sing along.
There is something primal about making noise while you move. We spend so much of our lives being quiet. "Use your inside voice." "Be professional." "Don't make a scene."
In that studio, making a scene is the point. When you stomp your feet on the beat and clap your hands over your head, you are releasing micro-aggressions that have built up over the week.
I remember one week where I was dealing with some heavy grief. I didn't want to go. I wanted to crawl into bed. But I dragged myself there. We did a cooldown track to a slower, more emotional song. I think it was a Bachata track. I found myself crying while I stretched. Not sad crying, but a release. The movement had unlocked something in my chest that sitting on the couch couldn't reach. I looked around, and I saw another woman wiping her eyes too. We shared a nod. We didn't need to speak. We knew.
Here is the thing about Zumba classes or any dance fitness format: You are not auditioning for a music video.
I think this is what scares people away. They see the polished promotional videos and think, "I can't move like that."
But the reality of a Tuesday night class is that 90% of us look ridiculous. We miss the beat. We spin the wrong way and almost collide with the wall. We try to do a "sexy body roll" and look like we are having a mild seizure.
There is so much joy in being bad at something together. When the instructor introduces a new, complicated routine, the collective confusion in the room is palpable. We all fumble through it, laughing. It breaks down the ego. You can't take yourself seriously when you are doing the "washing machine" move to a Soca beat.
This "ugly" dancing is healing. It reminds us that we don't have to be perfect to be worthy. We don't have to be graceful to enjoy our bodies. We just have to be willing to try.
The best part of the night is 8:05 PM. The music stops. The lights come up (which is always a shock to the system).
There is this collective exhale. We are all panting, reaching for water bottles, peeling our sweaty shirts off our backs. But look at the faces.
Every single person is smiling. It’s the endorphins, sure. But it’s also the shared experience. We survived. We conquered the playlist.
We filter out into the car park, the cold Irish air hitting our hot skin (which feels amazing, by the way). We say our goodbyes. "See you next week!" "Good job tonight!"
I get into my car, and I sit there for a minute before I turn the engine on. My legs feel like jelly. My hair is a disaster. But my mind is quiet. The noise of the day has been drowned out by the rhythm.
I could work out at home. I could buy a Peloton. I could follow a YouTube video in my living room.
But I wouldn't get the vibe. I wouldn't get Front Row Brenda’s energy. I wouldn't get the thumping bass that rattles my ribcage. I wouldn't get the feeling of being part of a weird, sweaty, wonderful tribe.
If you are looking for a place to belong, don't look for the most expensive gym with the fluffy towels. Look for the community centre with the scuffed floors and the loud speakers. Look for the room where people are laughing.
Embrace the sweat. Embrace the mess. Come and get ugly with us. I promise you, it’s the most beautiful you will feel all week.
