Dance Craze Uplifts My Spirit and My Thighs

  Five words about my Surfmobile: I sold the faithful vehicle. I’ll talk more about THAT and collective other people, places and things in subsequent posts.  I sold the inoperable Surfmobile (2004 Ford Escape) on April 24 via Craig’s List.  It was late afternoon when Francisco arrived to take a peek at the offering. The engine had blown back in November. I took it to a mechanic, but I wasn’t willing to drop thousands of dollars on a new or refurbished engine. Thus, I had the Surfmobile towed back to my garage where I tended to it until its very last breath: Battery recharges; Sponge baths; Refilling the tires with air. Finally, it occurred to me that I had to let it go or the vehicle would steadily deteriorate. Not to mention, it was taking up needed space in the garage and in my psyche.

  When Francisco’s brother, Arturo, arrived with a tow truck the next day, I stood taking photos of the…event…transition…memory…the SUV gingerly loaded on to a flat-bed tow truck for the haul to Long Beach.  I cried. I sniveled. I cried some more. Arturo occasionally paused loading the Surfmobile so that I could take as many photos as I desired. He also supplied tissue. The red Surfmobile proudly perched and secure atop the tow truck platform (a veritable showcase), Arturo drove slowly down the neighborhood street and into the traffic jam on Newport Road.

  Meanwhile, back in the house, I thanked God for such a faithful vehicle and for the (surprise) sale. I cried some more because of sentiment: I had driven my elderly parents and my young son all over town for years. I'd steal away to go surfing in Oceanside or skiing in Big Bear. Yeah, I drove it to work, too.   Then my parents passed away. My son, Juan, has his own spiffy truck now. The litany of blessed driving events in the Surfmobile -- an era, really -- is lengthy and joyful.

  Joyful I wasn't when I went to Menifee Fitness feeling a little restless and discontent at the dispensation of my Surfmobile. Besides my home, the beach and church, the gym is my sanctuary, too.  So, I waltzed into a hard-core spinning class. When I finished, I retreated to the locker room and cried a little more. Admittedly, I felt a small sense of relief for having made a decision, long deferred. I washed my reddened face and went out to the main gym floor to pump a little iron. I found a vacant, boring treadmill with a TV screen. I don’t like watching TV, especially in the gym. On my way out to go home, I bumped into my two, PX3 class peeps, Eric and Walter, sitting on the comfy, overstuffed chairs just outside of the cardio classroom, drinking water and wiping the sweat from their respective brows.

“You guys look a little tore up in a good way,” I said.

“So do you,” said Eric, a young, athletic sort. “Are you thinking about going in for Dance Craze?”

“Mmmmm, maybe,” I answered, perusing the monitor displaying the class schedule.

“You should. It’s a lot of fun. It’ll put that lovely smile back on your face in two minutes, two seconds,” said Walter, a middle-aged man who’s dropped some weight since I first met him in the PX3 class awhile back.

“Thanks guys. I think I will,” I said, still on the brink of a tearful outburst.

The classroom is a typical cardio workout room housing disco lighting, a stage, surround sound, full-length mirrors, wood flooring, various work out equipment and CIRCULATING AIR. I’m going to laud each and every one of the instructors at Menifee Fitness because I’ve taken various classes. I see Cindy, Harold, Ingrid, Lena, Jennifur, Yvonne, Andrea (to name a few) diligently training clients before and after classes, PLUS they’re in great shape. For a class schedule check out the Menifee Fitness website: www.menifeefitness.com

Cesar Garcia, Jr., however, is in a dance class all by himself. No sooner was I welcomed to an open spot in the classroom by other members, Cesar stood on stage explaining hand signals, basic dance moves and some very smooth, hip-hop moves.

“I just want you to have fun and feel sexy,” Cesar instructed. “So when you shimmy like this, really shimmy,” he demonstrated a dance move involving brushing our hands through our hair, upward,  punctuated with an all-out, flirtatious facial expression. We all giggled like little girls. Okay. It’s been awhile and my hair is short, but I was thinkin’: Hey! I can do THAT, a little hip-shakin’ and the shoulder swaying thing, too.

 Though I was a tad apprehensive that my dancing body language may get a lost in translation, the second that Cesar turned on the music, the bass, the lyrics – to music I wouldn’t normally listen to -- I couldn’t help myself.  I spied this ear-to-ear, bright, pearly-white smile in the mirror emanating from a woman in the back of the room, sashaying this way and gyrating that.  OMG!  There she is…me, happily busting aged, modified moves. Cesar is an excellent dancer.  So are some of his followers. 

  When I came into the gym that April evening, I was bummed. After the Dance Craze class, I was sooooo uplifted, I practiced swirly hand moves and hip swinging to my favorite music when I got home -- in front of the mirror.  I’ve returned to his class many times since then.  So if I ‘used to be’ a great dancer, I feel as though I’m polishing up my repertoire – at least in the gym environment.  Both feet are back in synch, but my rhythm is a little off. WHO CARES? I’M HAVING SOOO MUCH FUN!

  Tomorrow (Sunday), Cesar is offering a Master Class in Corona. Everyone is invited: men, women, oldsters and youngsters. I’d like to place a shout out to all of the former disco queens like me. Come and shake your groove thing. See the attached flyer.