Confession (a.k.a. Editor’s Note): I sat down to write with a Denny’s to-go coffee and turned on my new Michael Buble Pandora station. After ten minutes, I was convinced that his voice was becoming an accomplice to the most boring first draft ever written. Also, I started craving Olive Garden. Yes, Frank Sinatra, you may be a musical icon to some, but to me, you equal unlimited, buttery breadsticks and reheated lasagna. I switched to the Lady Gaga station. “Don’t call me Gaga.” I love that line. And now I’m dancing. This is why it takes me absolutely forever to get things done. It’s okay though, I love youuuuuuu mind.
In the wild, you must outrun the slowest human to survive.
In hip hop dance class, you need only stand next to me.
After weeks of fascinating observation of the housewives, twenty-somethings and occasional male-in-mid-life-crisis moving in sync in their natural habitat, I skipped out on yoga class and joined the herd.
Sure, I was a little nervous. My dancing is usually done in my kitchen with no audience or in dive bars in the company of six to eight beers. But despite my nerves, I put on my sexiest track jumpsuit, my busted sneakers and chugged a DD coffee en route to L.A. Fitness.
I was ready to fucking dance.
Within minutes, I learned several things.
- There are many 40+ housewives who can dance the hell out of a Beyonce tune.
- If you are the last person to arrive, you get center stage (the spot in front of the double doors where testosterone-pumped judges line up in between sessions of lifting really, really heavy things repeatedly).
- I’m best at replicating dance moves that mimic volleyball or basketball training exercises. Knee kicks? Got it. Ground taps? Got it. Sexy salsa turn? Water break.
- In contrast to my freestyle dance performances, (where I do extremely goofy moves with a straight face) when attempting to perform real dance moves, I keep a “I’m so bad at dancing but this is fun” grin on my face at all times to publicly acknowledge my inferior dance skills and therefore avoid becoming the centerpiece of weight room jokes.
- I have the attention span of a 3-year-old. Seriously, I am incapable of attending a fitness class without planning a blog write-up about it in my head the entire time.
I admit, I sat the 5th song out because I was afraid of death. It gave me an idea though.
Should I coach a basketball or volleyball team in the future, I will punish keg party attendees* with hip hop dance marathons. It’s win-win-win.
- Win – I get to dance.
- Win – They have to mimic my moves.
- Win – They will almost die from exhaustion, and if truly hung over, they might even puke.
See? This is what I was thinking about as the instructor showed us move after move.
Obviously, I didn’t pick them all up, but I did manage to consistently master 80% of each routine 20 seconds prior to the end of the song and the beginning of another step-by-step lesson. With 15 minutes left in class, I darted out for a water break.
“Can I do one more song?”
“Yes, I can do one more!”
So with visions of steak, wine and Jersey Shore, I half-heartedly kicked and turned through the dance instructions.
“God, why can’t we just jump around for a couple songs?”
“Shit, another sequence?!”
I thought about quitting mid-song, but conveniently, this particular instructor has a rule that you cannot do just this. So despite free will and ample walking ability, I continued to dance.
“Come on, make your moves crisp!” She demanded.
“What the hell.” I thought.
“Some of you aren’t even trying!” She continued.
“No shit, I’m trying to be respectful right now by not walking out.” I responded internally.
And then my thoughts drifted even further from the routine. This woman, bless her good intentions, just told us (and me in particular via eye contact) that we are not trying, however, she is wearing a scrunchy in 2010. Does she really want to have a conversation about outward expressions of apathy right now?
*This is not a confession. I stand by my claim. I DID NOT DRINK AT THAT HALLOWEEN PARTY SENIOR YEAR (giggle, giggle).
