I've been going to gym every day, in an attempt to get ready for this year's Danskin Triathlon. I am determined to beat the swimmers who are using pool noodles this year.
To that end, I decided to go to spinning class this week. I was 5 minutes late (which I HATE. I really don't like showing up late--I don't like people noticing me in any athletic situation.) The instructor wasn't wearing a microphone, and I thought at first that I just couldn't hear her, but as it turns out she was speaking Spanish. In fact, everyone in the class seemed to speak Spanish except for me. So there we are in the dark, with our towels and lint glowing purple from the black light, and a crazy rainbow discoball, AND she was playing really bad techno, and screaming in Spanish. I would catch the occasional "andar le" (is that how you spell it? Senora MacKenzie, my spanish teacher, would be so disappointed.)
Fortunately now and then she would point at me and scream "FASTER!" Her mouth was open so wide I could see all her bridges. She was vicious and wonderful. Nothing motivates you to really push up those "hills" like screaming Mexican ladies at a disco.
When the class concluded, everyone gathered around her and they were all talking very fast and rolling their r's and slapping their own butts with an appreciative body-weariness. I would like to learn some Spanish and return again next Wednesday.
My husband and I are both opera singers, and in the fall we moved from NYC to Michigan, where he is now a professor of voice and opera at Oakland University. In January we bought our first house-- an 1895 Victorian, and we're expecting our first child (a boy) in April.