So I was young once. And in those days I used to dance. A lot. To poppy hip hop stuff. And I danced well. I danced on tables. I danced on chairs. I danced with friends. I mean, I could do hard grinds that would make you wonder if I really did work around the corner in the dark alley. Only my drunk ghetto dance friend could rival me with her grinds that were done with her hands on the ground and her butt still shaking in the air. I gave her props for going down that far, but I had my limits. Bar floors are dirty.
If you know me you are wondering if I am a liar because most people have never interpreted me to be THAT cool. Where did I do all this? This was all done on the land of Frodo where no one knew me or would ever hear of me again...no seriously.
And why all this nostalgia? Because recently I have tried to combat post-pregnancy fat with a ten-minute dance blast mix that I got on Netflix. The routines are simple. The white girl in it is skinny. Her abs are rock solid. I go with it. But wow, her inability to dance is contagious and soon, I am just a little blob of jiggly things doing a jazz square. Oh lordy.
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