So You Know You Can't Dance?

“How about Wednesday night?”

“Can’t. I have a thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Just a thing.”

“Oh, a date thing?”

“No…a dance class thing.”

Awkward pause.

“You’re taking a dance class? Really? Um, what kind of dance class?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. You’ll laugh.”

“I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Okay, hip hop.”

Photo by William Hamon (aka Ewns)

Cue a solid five minutes of laughter bordering on an asthma attack. I’ve had a variation of this conversation (always with the laughing) with everyone to whom I’ve admitted my plans. Heck, if you know or have ever met me offline, I’m sure you’re laughing right now, too.

I understand the credulity. Not only do I abhor dancing (I may or may not have camped out in the ladies room during my sister’s wedding reception, thereby forcing my mother  to slow dance to that Armageddon song with my assigned groomsman in my place), I lack any innate sense of rhythm and I’m possibly the squarest person I know. But I’m in the mood for a challenge, a fall project to shake my routine up a bit. Of course  I could have opted for printmaking, digital photography or learning ASL, but where’s the out-of-character silliness and potential for self-deprecating anecdotes in those choices? Nope, go big or go home. Sure, popping and locking isn’t on par with say, polyphasic sleep experiments, but we all have to start somewhere.

And really, what I fear even more than attempting to move my body in time to music is the specter of being one of those people who never takes risks, never gets outside of their comfort zone and can never quite seem to put his/her money where his/her mouth is. I refuse to be that person and if getting down to some Kanye helps to prevent that, well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, dig?

FYI, I wrote this before last night’s class. Tune in tomorrow for all the post-class gory details. Hint: It involves someone named Pitbull and his love for the Holiday Inn.