With a neck built for a ballerina or a giraffe, I’ve always tried to instill a bit of grace in every athletic endeavor I undertake. From dancing in crowded night clubs to toilet papering neighboring houses, you can be assured that I follow the rhythm and my hips hit every beat. Now, living in the Latin heartbeat of the world, my syncopation has served me well, but I’ve got a long way to go.
I was reminded of this fact last Friday when I finally found a gym in my capital city to assist me in the reduction of potato and rice associated love handles. Its name Keops and bizarre Egyptian mosaics on every wall transport me back to my slave days in Cairo. The machines were much simpler then but the mantras are the same; ‘follow instructions or risk death, work hard to produce beauty.’ In the modern case, however, the instructions are complicated Rumba dance steps and the beautiful reward is a Latin gluteus maximus.
This gym is unique to any other I’ve been to in one very important respect, namely that ALL aerobic class participants can nail the dance steps on the initial attempt.
While not exactly astrophysics, coordinating large muscle groups to match music is a difficult enough task for many in American jazzercise classes. In my decade of gym memberships I have born witness to many a curious exercise occurrence, as well as provided fodder for others onlooking folly. Once a 74 year old woman plunked down her Pilates mat mere inches from mine in a not so crowded studio with a mischievous grin… and then loosed her anal sphincter and gas filled jejunum for the entire 60 minute class. For half an hour I stifled my laughter and tried not to gag but then, in minute 32, she turned her head ever so slowly towards me and with an unnatural sparkle in here eyes let rip a fart loud enough to make the Pope blush. I clamped my hand over my mouth to contain my raucous outburst but as the need to stop laughing is inversely proportionate with the impulse to laugh, I had no choice but to escape.
A few agile leaps over the rest of the oblivious pulsating women landed me safely by the water fountain to finish my side splitting laughter in peace. At the end, in a passive aggressive move standard for group instruction facilitators, my behavior was mentioned and reprimanded for all to hear without ever outrightly mentioning me as the culprit. “For future classes let’s make sure we are in the right state of mind to do Pilates. To truly center yourself and be one with the movements, one must achieve a certain level of seriousness. Plenty of time for fun and games after class.” In my mind I amended her speech with, “And for those interested in speeding global warming with noxious methane release, please be so kind as to purchase my video and save us from inhaling the fumes of your dried apricot consumption.”
Then there was that time when I wandered into an experts only yoga class in Boulder and the instructor had to personally extricate me from myself after a failed attempt at Half Pretzel Warrior Seven. Life is always interesting when you refuse to leave, especially after the teacher gently repeats at the end of her introduction while burning holes into your soul with her eyes, “beginners should leave now.”
But at Keops, everyone is an expert in dancing, so the incredibly fit caramel brown Luigi doesn’t have to chastise beginners for trying. Instead he encourages the gyrating mass to “move those hips like you mean it” and “get down and dirty.” Maybe he coaches strippers too.
During the hour of Rumba I hold off on secret competitions because…I would lose. These Ecuadorian girls are good, like Brittany pre-head shave. Luigi’s running commentary, professionally sexy moves, and music lively enough to rouse the recently declared dead have all combined to make Fridays my favorite day of the week. Friday is the only day I don’t hit snooze 15 times. When that familiar beep BEEP BEEP wakes me at 5am, I jump from my bed into my aerobics clothes, pause in the bathroom only long enough to Colgate the friendly night bacteria from my bucal pearls and then jog my way down the mountain to catch a bus into the city.
To arrive on time to 8am Rumba, my Nike cross trainers must cross the domestic moat (our street gutter is really wide and deep) no later than 6am. To be fair, half that commute is spent hiking down the mountain and waiting for the first bus. Once in the city, it’s relatively quick and easy to get to the gym. (25 cents in bus or 2 dollars in taxi)
After sweating out all the potato toxins with tricky Ecuadorian dance moves, I like to hit the weight machines, if nothing else than to remind myself how very weak I’ve become. Although last week I won the secret weight lifting competition. Secret because the other competitors did not know they were competing. Regardless, every time I contorted myself into a weight machine and had to move the pin down to hold more weight I shouted, “I WIN!”
The friendly trainer, Miguel, an Ecuadorian version of Tony Hawk skateboarder meets Channing Tatum body builder, swung by the thigh abductor to make sure I was ok. After barely exchanging small talk, he asked me out on a date. I had been forewarned about the gym workers’ gringa fetish from another volunteer friend and should have been prepared with a smooth rejection but there is something disconcerting about maintaining a conversation while opening and closing your legs. Consequently caught off guard and in a compromising position, I said yes. And then prayed he would never call. So far so good, there is a still a nation wide cell phone credit shortage. 
Thanks for reading!
