Solo Living, Travel, Mom Blogs!

Written by: Joanna 10/10/2005 12:00:00 AM
"In South Beach the body beautiful is attained through a grueling combination of the famous diet, extra-curricular substances, and Crunch gym cardio-classes. The best attended classes are given by Lisa Gaylord, a tough-love lesbian tri-athlete whose legendary status means that her classes are referred to as “Are you going to Lisa?” rather than “Are you going to Kardio Kombat or Sweatshop?”

For one hour Wednesday evening or 1.5 hours Saturday morning, men and women in small colorful sports tops, short shorts, and the latest in sneaker technology sweat, stretch, groove, run, jump, dance, and perform free movements to hip hop hits.

The class includes the Lisa lover contingent, gay men, Brazilian and Argentine trust fund heiresses, model wanna-be’s and a few carb-eaters. The combined total weight over the BMI recommendation of the 75 attendees is seven pounds. Everyone has their designated place in the room and almost everyone is a regular. In the front row are the decade-long patrons who know each song’s notes and moves. They jostle for the front row to admire their outfits, torsos and firm abs in the mirror. A fist fight nearly broke out once over the coveted spot near Lisa. Lisa stopped it, but the ladies exchanged further insults in the locker room. On the left side the lesbian contingent rules; in the middle the gay men reign; the back left is for the Brazilian/ Argentine crowd; the middle-back right air conditioning aficionados; and the back right the unsuspecting newbies. Straight men are as rare as the prize in Cracker Jacks. Lisa’s girlfriend always gets prime real estate.

Lisa is front and center. She doesn’t speak much, just launches into her moves and the class follows. For the newbie, who is in charge is not apparent. Lisa is not on stage, she does the moves with us in our midst. She doesn’t scream peppy semi-inspirational “Burn that chocolate cake!” in a shrill non-stop ex-cheerleader voice like lesser instructors. When she gets close to you, you feel a surge of energy. She is blonde, thin and muscular with ripped abs, arms and legs. She wears colorful, edgy work-out clothes and sports a few tattoos. Everyone wants to be her. Or at least be like her. Or look like her. She loves the class and we revel in her love.

After the class stretches to hip hop beats, she puts on dance music and we start kicking our legs out in front and moving our arms back and forth. Knees go up, brows furrow, sweat starts dripping. Lisa yells out, “to the front” and the entire class moves in synchronicity towards the mirror. It looks like a colorful, fit Times Square ambush and then as rapidly, the onslaught moves backwards. No one trips. To the front, to the back. Knees high. When the music changes to another loud, dance beat, we change step to a cha-cha, and a tall thin man thrusts his arm up and yells out, “Woohoo! Yeah!” Reminds him of his successful evening? Someone across the room catcalls, “Uh huh!” Was he equally successful or happy for his friend?

Back and forth. Pink sports tops turn fuchsia with sweat.

Lisa yells, “Right side.” Everyone runs madly in a circle to the right. People dance, skip, jog, and sprint. Some pass on the inside, others chill out and jog slowly (although doing this risks Lisa’s mockery). Some do a criss-cross dance, others run backwards. A few break into the middle of the circle and do cartwheels or the “I am the Champion” move. It’s the modern version of the roller rink including cruising. Who knew exercise could be such fun? With great music and pick-up’s, there is no need to go out at night—trade a hang-over in for sore muscles.

On the circle’s fringes are a few pregnant women, a man thrusting his knees up to his chin like a frenetic overzealous marching band captain, and others dancing like Richard Simmons or Jane Fonda on crack.

As we jog around the room, I hear “I had carbs last night,” from a dainty although sweaty young super-model dead-ringer to her equally petite, lanky friend. She doesn’t say, “I had rice or potatoes.” In South Beach or at least at Crunch, bagels, french fries, sweet potatoes and bread are all referred to as “carbs” or possibly “starch.” Lost is any differentiation. While dining at a sushi restaurant the night before, my friend passed me a bowl of white rice and said, “Carbs?” I declined of course.

Another group passes me discussing the previous night’s conquests, “Oooh, he was so cute, great clothes, great shoes, great car, he has a boat, in his 30’s, maybe a real estate investor. He didn’t say.” If the class were a cartoon and everyone had pop-up dialogue, some would say, “I can do this, I kick ass.” Or “I might die here, I hope it’s not too embarrassing. Will it make Ocean Drive magazine? The Miami Herald? Oh God, I better not die. If I do, it better beat out Bennifer 2 for the story.”

Lisa turns down the music and yells, “How are you all doing?” Only a few enthusiastic yells rise above the music’s din from the weight room next door. “Come on bee-aches!” Lisa yells. “Did you all party too much last night? Are you eating dairy? Let’s go!” A more enthusiastic scream erupts. “Woohoo! Woohoo!” No one wants an extra abdominal work-out. Lisa has the tough football coach’s style, but earns the love of the friendly principal because we know she cares about us.

A few people walk out and Lisa shouts, “Where are you going?”

Apparently we’re running too slowly, because Lisa turns down the music and bellows, “I want to see you move.” We all run faster, we know she’s right, we’re there to work our bodies. The temperature rises, make-up drips, it’s brushed away, to be re-applied after class. Out a window in the back, we can see the Sony clock, counting down the remaining minutes of sweating, and out the window, we see the congestion of Ocean Drive and throng of lobster-faced, chunky Midwestern tourists. No one in class has hung out at the neon happy hour of Ocean Drive since moving to Miami. But the hotels, palm trees, sandy sunny beaches outside and our reflections in the mirror inspire us to keep moving. If we make it through class, we can vegetate on the 3rd street locals only beach all afternoon.

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