Let's Get Intellectual About Getting Physical

So I promised an update about Project Dance 2009…

And I bet you think this is going to be one of those demure wallflower gets talked into taking a pole dancing class by her gregarious best friend and while hesitant at first, eventually gains confidence and connects with her inner stiletto-lovin’ sex kitten tales, right? Well, get real y’all. Screw that patronizing BS. Not every story needs a  Slutty Sandy from Grease ending, ya know? And who you callin’ demure or a wallflower?

“Tell me about it, stud.” Except, please don’t, ‘kay?

The first problem was figuring out what to wear. Workout gear? Clubbing clothes? The former I own (albeit in all their mismatched glory), the latter I’ve seen on tv, in movies and in my sisters’ closets. I settled for one of the two hoodies in my wardrobe, a pair of gray capris and sneakers. I realized as soon I stepped through the studio door that I’d made the wrong call. Wall-to-wall lululemon and perky ponytails. There were legwarmers, people. LEGWARMERS. All of my classmates seemed A) to already know one another and B) to have an obsession with So You Think You Can Dance? that bordered on the disconcertingly fanatical. The class before us was just finishing. They were rehearsing some sort of interpretative contemporary dance to Duffy’s Mercy. It didn’t appear to be that difficult, or so I told myself.

Our instructor had a vintage Tawny Kitaen look. I don’t think I’ve ever described anyone as having a mane of hair, but she definitely did. She also had moves. Serious moves. Moves that would have put Fly Girl era J-Lo to shame. And to varying degrees, so did everyone around me, even the woman old enough to be my mother.  As soon as Pitbull’s Hotel Room came blaring out of the studio speakers, I realized I was in way over my head.

I had been expecting tough hip hop. All bouncing shoulders and crossed arms. Maybe some uprocking? But this was sexy hip hop. Like that thing where you stick your hip out, pop your chest and roll your neck all in one fluid movement? And that other move where you bend all the way over with your hands on the floor and then jump up and swing your hair around (there might even be a pelvic thrust in there somewhere)? Things were about to get ugly. Grapevine, tutting, ski jump, synchronized locking. I realized very quickly that I dance like Tina Fey in character as Sarah Palin, as styled by Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. Each spin we did made me progressively dizzier until I was lurching into the wall. I managed to kick over the water bottle belonging to the nice lady standing next to me at least four times. And forget about mastering even the simplest the step-ball-change sequence. I focused on just avoiding crashing into the row of dancers  in front of me.

But my inability to grasp even the simplest sequence (well, not entirely true, I can do that pretending your heart is coming out of your chest thing adequately) wasn’t just a result of a lack of  physical musicality. I think it also had a lot to do with the fact that I relate to my body in an almost exclusively utilitarian way. I feed it, clothe it, exercise it, shower it fanatically and refuse to think or say negative things about it. But I don’t really connect with it. I’m not even entirely sure I could pick it out of a line-up of similarly built (clothed) forms. My body is more or less a vehicle for powering my super awesome (and totally seductive in their own right) brain and personality around. I take conscientious care of it because I want it to continue serving this function to its fullest capacity for a damn long time. Even the kind of sports I prefer tend to be ones that can be routinized and scientifically analyzed – running, weightlifting, archery. In other words, these hips don’t know from swivelin’, dig?

So I’m cerebral* (in a totally adorable way, natch) and until now I’ve always felt an unqualified pride in this fact, so it’s strange and humbling to realize that there’s a downside to living entirely in your head. I’ve spend so many years  successfully cultivating a body image that doesn’t rely on being concerned with Cosmo-approved standards of female desirability that I’ve completed divorced myself from my corporeal side and the notion of my body’s capacity for creative physical expression.  On one hand, I wouldn’t trade my healthy self-image for the ability to bust a move or execute an arabesque, but on the other, it’s frustrating when I can’t seem to make my limbs even approximate the movements that come effortlessly to everyone else in the room. And it’s not even a function of self consciousness; I don’t care if I look silly (Exhibit A: my ill-fated attempt to learn to figure skate), but I do care that I keep mixing up my left and right and coming dangerously close to elbowing my neighbor in the head on multiple occasions.

I spoke to the instructor after the class was over and asked her if there was, perhaps, a more accessible (read: remedial) option on the schedule. She suggested I check out the other hip hop class on offer, billing it as a slower, more lyrical and less crowded choice. I thought she might recommend that I switch to jazz or even belly dancing (over my dead, decidedly non earth mother body), but, in hindsight, I’m kind of glad that she didn’t. I’m not one to back away from a challenge (or a lost cause, but we won’t mention that part, will we?) and hip hop presents an even bigger (physical and intellectual) challenge than I had originally bargained for. I owe it to both my inner Margaret Mead and my inner Twyla Tharp to give it at least one more chance to determine if I can silence my mental monologue long enough to eventually master the shoulder roll.

Now if I could only find a way to get Chris Brown’s Forever out of my head. Seriously, 36 hours and counting.  So much wrong.

* To wit, while everyone else is debating whether we should criss-cross our legs to the right or to the left, I’m trying to decipher the lyrics of the soundtrack to our routine. Seriously, the Holiday Inn? He’s shouting out a chain motel? And egg whites? Why is he singing about egg whites? Oh, wait. OMG, THIS IS NOT ABOUT BREAKFAST, IS IT?!