Since I am on the subject of misadventures and failed attempts, the next that comes to my mind is a gymnastics class that my grandmother Mercedes, whom we called Topeo, decided to enrolled me in. Classes were held at the José Martí Sports Park, located in El Vedado.

I never liked the idea and stubbornly refused to take the bus to go there so Topeo had no choice but finding a taxi for us. (I never said that I wasn’t spoiled.) Back then, the ride cost about two or three pesos. That was in 1976, maybe 1977.

The José Martí Park had a huge swimming pool, a basketball court, and a stadium that we passed by on our way to the gym.

From the gym as such I remember the wooded floors, polished to a smooth finish and slippery as hell, the wall of mirrors, and a piano in a corner that provided the music for our routines. I also remember the teacher—a tall and energetic lady with short blonde hair who looked like Raffaella Carrà.

The students were girls between ten and twelve years old. Judging by the photo, I must have been about eleven.

But, just as it would happen later with the piano lessons, I couldn’t get the hang of gymnastics. My classmates glided across the floor like pint-sized sylphs while I resembled a lame, albeit skinny, elephant. I avoided looking at the mirror-covered walls.

“Follow the rhythm, Teresita, follow the rhythm!” the teacher would shout at me.

But where was the rhythm? How to find it? It was like chasing an invisible dog.

There was a girl slightly older than me whom the teacher constantly scolded, not for lack of rhythm, but for having too much of it. She was also exasperated by the fact that the girl’s behind puffed up the back of her leotard in what our teacher deemed “an indecent display.”

“You can’t be a gymnast with that big butt,” she grumbled frequently.

The girl would turn red, embarrassed by something she had as little control over as I did over my lack of rhythm.

I could have flatly refused to attend classes, but never did. Maybe I sensed that gymnastics was important to Topeo, just as the piano would be later, and resigned myself. Topeo was the soul of my childhood, for better and for worse.

As a reward for my forced obedience, we almost always went to a pizzeria called Montecatini after classes were over. I loved their lasagnas and lobster pizzas.

No matter how much I talk about food (tocinillo, pizza, lasagna), the truth is that I ate very little. I didn’t reach a hundred pounds until I was twenty. No wonder other kids had nicknamed me Skinny Cat!

Anyway, several months into the classes, it was customary for the students to perform in public (mostly to an audience of relatives) and display their newly acquired skills. Topeo was delighted and even invited her friends to the performance. However, just before the first rehearsal, the teacher announced there would be an elimination process since not all of us would be able to participate in the show.

After the rehearsal, as expected, the culoncita and I were left out. The poor girl burst into tears. I comforted her but felt both relieved and overjoyed. When our class was dismissed that day, I knew that I wouldn’t see those slippery wooded floors or Raffaela Carra lookalike again.

That afternoon I told Topeo that I had been disqualified not only from the performance but also from continuing with the classes.

“The teacher says I don’t have any aptitude for gymnastics.”

When we got home, my mother supported me unconditionally.

“Stop making the girl do things she clearly isn’t interested in and isn’t good at!” she scolded Topeo.

Defeated, my grandmother had no choice but to give in. And that’s when she came up with the idea of piano lessons…

But everything in this world has its good side, doesn’t it? That unpleasant childhood experience left me with an interest in fitness. Now, at 57, I go to the gym often and work out every day at home. Without music and without rhythm. But who needs them?