This morning I woke up before I could respond to the questions posed by an enthusiastic group of well-muscled (what powerful thighs!) Latinas whose dark, lustrous hair was sweat-slicked off their damp faces. They followed me from a dense set-up of gym equipment to a clearing on the floor, and demanded answers with such fierce intensity that I had no choice but to escape by waking up. I am afraid to go back to sleep without giving them what they want, so here, chicas lindas, are your answers:
- No, the rumors are not true: I am not teaching the early morning spinning class on Sundays. I do not spin, on Sunday or otherwise, unless, of course, you mean those occasions when I take a little ride inside my washing machine alongside the whites. (And when I say “whites”, I am not being racist … it’s just that I prefer not to mingle with the colors, because I always come out pink. So don’t even think of sending me hate mail accusing me of racism.)
- No, I am not modelling for the Taj Mahal casino. You will not see my face and body splashed across billboards or in print ads this year. I did not sign a contract, and, in fact, never had any intention of modelling for Taj Mahal. You heard wrong.
When I go to sleep tonight, ladies, you are all welcome back into my dreams, but only if you keep quiet. Please feel free to parade in front of me, however, in those little shorts that show off the results of all the lunges you were doing before you bombarded me with silly questions.
Wait! Hasn’t she dreamed of Latinas before? Yes. Yes, she has.