Chorus Line of Unlikely Hip-Hoppers Gets in Step
It was supposed to be a “cardio” class, the printed schedule on my refrigerator said so: Sunday. 11:45 a.m. Cardio.
Unfortunately, I had missed the small print: “Subject to change without notice.”
Which is what happened.
Which is why I’m now thinking about quitting my job, trading in my Lady Brooks Brothers suits for Babes in Spandexwear and auditioning for the next Bobby Brown video.
Is Los Angeles a great town or what?
Where else is there such a collective body consciousness?
Certainly people in Kenosha don’t get into shape before joining a gym?
Not even in New York City can you find so many exercise classes anytime, anyplace as L. A.--from the scuzzy high school gym with warped wooden floors to the ultra high-tech health/fitness/beauty facility with valet parking.
Want to flex those pecs at 10 p.m. in Tustin? You can. Want to climb the Stairmaster to the stars in Hollywood at 2 a.m.? Just put on your little Reeboks (along with coordinated Reebok headband, Reebok bodysuit, Reebok warm-up suit and Reebok gym bag) and you’re on your way.
It’s all here.
High aerobics. Low aerobics. Land aerobics. Sea aerobics. Toddler aerobics. Senior aerobics. Aerobics for men. Aerobics for women.
And then there’s the step family: Beginning step, advanced step, double-double beginning advanced intermediate step with a twist of funk.
And yes, Cardio.
Except for 11:45 that Sunday morning when we had . . . Hip-Hop with Francois.
Whazzup ? he shouted into the microphone to Ladies Who Lunge, a dozen or so of the most unhip-hopping women alive.
Like me, they are older and flabbier. And like me, they had come to Cardio class for a couple of jumping jacks, a few sit-ups and some push-ups. An hour later, we figured we’d be out in time for lunch.
None of us had ever been to our Culver City health club during this particular time slot, so we didn’t know that Francois had replaced cardio. He clearly was young enough to be my son--if not the grandson of some fellow exercisers.
And now he was inquiring, Whazzup?
Our jaws dropped at once, as if we had just been given a scientific explanation for gravity in Norwegian. We just stared.
Francois immediately figured out the problem: “How many of you are new to the class?”
A dozen or so hands slowly went up.
Sensing our fear, he explained how hip-hop can be your friend, how we should go at our own pace. He encouraged us and said we would know an entire hip-hop dance movement by the time class ended--90 minutes later.
My needs were simpler: Having seen on those MTV videos how strenuous hip-hop is, I just wanted to be able to leave the club without any assistance from the Culver City Fire Department.
How can I best describe hip-hop? Imagine walking across hot coals barefoot, but to a beat . . . and with attitude.
How did it go?
Well, Ladies Who Lunge did quite nicely, thank you. We looked like Janet Jackson. No!No!No!, we looked like we could give Janet and Michael dance lessons.
We hipped, we hopped. We made plans to buy better bras.
Francois, who could teach fish how to walk on water, did a move, which basically is lots of hopping and very little hipping. Then we did a move. He’d add on a move. We’d add on a move.
At first, I must confess, we were lost.
“Doesn’t he realize how old we are?” asked a panting classmate.
“I don’t think he cares,” panted another.
From the front of the class, Francois yelled out our dancing orders: Right foot . . . kick front, kick back, kick front, step, turn, one and two and three, hop, one and two and three, hop ... And we stumbled along.
After a while, though, what started as pain and a textbook case of group lack of coordination turned into fun. Here we were, graduates of Miss Charlotte’s School of Dance, class of ‘63, jumping up and down like madwomen.
After 87 minutes, we were moving like a very hip, albeit somewhat arthritic, chorus line.
And like yo! , by the end of class, we were vowing to return every week at 11:45 on Sunday to be in Francois’ Posse.
We could hang, thank you.