Just today, I thought I’d finally join in on my student’s Just Dance brain break video. They always ask if I’ll dance with them, but I just say, “Oh, I don’t want to scare you.” That seems to make them stop asking, so I can continue to sit like a fat lump, wondering where my childhood energy and zest for sudden movements went to. I don’t know what came over me today, but I wanted to Kung Foo Fight like funky Billy Chin for some reason.
It was a terrible idea. When I started “swinging with the hand”, I knocked over a stand, my coffee, and stumbled into the map on the wall, which made it roll up with a deafening, thunderous roar.
All of my students stopped dead in their ninja tracks.
Their eyes said it all: My teacher is so not cool.
This is why trying to find my non-existent moves is best when behind closed doors.
I’m just so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me into joining the teacher talent show group.
Behold, my last attempt at Just Dance:
So, my boyfriend has been going to personal training kickboxing three times a week (he’ll probably look like a white, mustachioed Oscar de la Hoya in a month-f*%#ing men), and while he’s gone, I hork out on junk and watch Netflix.
It occurred to me that it’s not really in my best interest to get even fatter while my boyfriend beefs up. It’s one thing if you’re polishing off a package of Oreos, together, in stained, oversized t-shirts, in front of American Horror Story, and a whole other nasty animal to glutton alone, while the other is being punched in the stomach by an MMA fighter. It’s kinda not fair.
So, I thought- what better time to drag out my dusty yoga mat and bust out a couple sloth-like moves.
Side note- anyone remember the reason I started this blog-the yoga journey I kicked off like a bat out of hell? Or, more like a fat girl with no real idea that it would require an immense amount of effort I wasn’t ready to give? Yeah…that’s not embarrassing or anything.
So, my yoga mat wasn’t just dusty from little use, it literally was crusty-hard from old sweat from my last yoga session, 45 years ago. It actually almost cracked in two.
Well, I promptly threw it back into the closet and about gave up, until I remembered that I’ve always meant to be a breakout dance star, a la Flashdance (or more realistically, MTV’s Made). So, what better idea than to Whip/Nae Nae my way to fitness?
I don’t really have anything to say about my solo dance party, other than if you’re going to sweat it out to Just Dance, and you have as much rhythm as a flag pole, close your blinds, your curtains, and turn your lights off. Ain’t no one ready to see what you think is “dancing”.
My Whip Nae/Nae looked more like “Quick/Call 911/I Have Whip Lash.
FYI: flexibility is a prerequisite to whipping your whatever.
I fear I’ll never be able to turn my head, freely, to the right again.
This is why eating the rest of my Mom’s cream cheese pumpkin bars was a better idea.
It’s like I never learn.