Mami's Been On Spring Break

You think you're in shape until you, on a whim, print out a free pass to a distant, fancy gym and take an Afro-Brazilian dance class. It's not like I am a stranger to these dance moves. The class said Afro-Brazilian, but it was Afro-Caribbean as far as I'm concerned and I know the basic moves of los santos. In fact, I used to be the dance, when I was younger, and El Conguero was the drum. At 21, I used to take a similar class where we came across the floor by two's dancing to live drums. My roommate Eva and I knocked the ballerinas off the front line because those poor girls couldn't unlock their hips and me and Eva couldn't keep ours still. El Conguero was a guest drummer for the class now and again and I would sway and switch up the floor while he played and stared holes in me. Eva would swing her hair around in big sweeps and laugh deep. She was a big girl who wore tight leopard catsuits and red lipstick to class without an open care though sometimes she got secretly hurt when the stiff dancers looked at her wrong. I swore I'd slash a ballerina who talked shit on her. When the teacher told us we belonged on the front line - technical training be damned -- we swished our way through the others, Eva flinging her long dark curls, and me fixated on the drums. So I know the dance, but it had been a long time. The teacher of the class I took last week had a perfect energy, a woman who at first glance looked like a middle-aged fifth grade teacher with glasses and a big behind. But I wouldn't have trusted a little booty lady leading this kind of class. She put on samba music for the warm up, but one drummer showed up with a conga and percussive toys and I felt relieved. When the fifth grade teacher circled her hips like they were not connected to her waist, I was convinced we were in great hands. I know the etiquette of a dance class and even if I connect with the music personally and instinctively know the movement, I know to keep my ass in the back and not try to show up the regulars. That's rude anyway. But after two trips across the floor, the fifth grade teacher pointed to me and told me to get my culo front and center. The older woman whose place I took was gracious and welcomed me. The two women who flanked me, not so much. Didn't matter. I was in direct line with the drum then. I closed my eyes, mainly, and went. There were two men in the class, which apparently was rare, so the teacher concentrated on more masculine moves, dances de Chango; kingly and strong. So I stomped barefoot and squatted low, twisted my torso and flung my arms back with an arched back and an upward tilt to my chin. Queens know the dances of kings too. Over and over and back and forth, we got low for Chango and I yelped for the shy dancers and slapped five with the older woman and a beautiful blonde zaftig woman who put herself in the back. God, I wanted to tell the curvy blonde that these dances were made for her and F any person who ever made her feel badly about her body including herself, but I just slapped her five instead. After the class, I was exhilarated and nostalgic for sure, but the day after it felt like the whole back half of my body had been dipped in pain. I was crying every time I made a move for three whole days.