The only men in the building are the two security guards who sit in a booth just inside the main door. They greet me warmly and assure me that they remember me from Saturday, the first time I attended the 6:30 class. In the locker room, bodies are unwound from the fabrics that cover them head to toe. Hair and faces are exposed as veils come off and women walk around freely in the nude, in between showers and clothes. For some reason I don’t find it surprising how free and comfortable Moroccan women are with their bodies. I guess I’ve had enough feminist-ing to know that a lot of body insecurity comes from the social pressures of more revealing Western clothing, something women here obviously don’t have to deal with as much. In Morocco, who cares how you look at the gym- you will never have to show the shape of your body like that on the street. This attitude also makes for an interesting group appearance. Unlike posh gyms of the west, where middle class women attend daily services in their Sunday best Nikes (I should know, I have two pairs of my very own Nike sneaks), women here work out in a strange variety of baggy sweats and well loved spandex. Exercise isn’t exactly common, so the situation is increasingly humorous when you take into account that most of these women are at least a little hefty, and are not accustomed to following dance steps or aerobic instruction. This stops no one, though, and when the American techno pop blares out of the 1996 style boom box, all two dozen or so 15-55 year old Moroccan women start marching in place to the hip-hoppin beat. The instructor calls out counts in French, and occasionally throws in a good hip sway or two I cant follow to remind me that my belly dancing days were over before they began. Again, the lack of dance experience and probably lung capacity of a majority of the class causes most of the women to stop each exercise early or to simply sway back and forth in place, but our fearless leader steps on, with moves to keep our hearts pumping and muscles burning. She’s the Arab Denise Austen that will get your rear in gear. After a half hour of line dancing mixed with jumps, squats, and those seductive and discouraging belly dance moves, we each take a “rank piece of Styrofoam” (read: abs mat) and Fathima Denise leads us in core like Core Power has never seen. The exercise portion of the class ends long before the class dismisses, the music is not turned off, only down, and at the end of an hour, the teacher continues to wow me with her mid-section prowess as the rest of the women divide into friend circles and watch and chat. Today was only my second class, but I can already tell you that getting my groove on to Daft Punk with every color, shape and size of female and sweat suit will be the highlight of my trip.
Also, just an F.Y.I. – to all of anyone who told me not to pack too many clothes: a little bit, you suck. I am freezing, and I think even the street children are starting to question my personal hygiene. I am currently wearing every long sleeve shirt that I brought, except for the one that I have been running in, I am wearing leggings under my jeans, and three pairs of socks. And, I have been wearing all of these things for the past week.
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