I want to talk about dancing. I used to be bad. Then I got good. But, now I think I’m bad again?
Yoko Ono is not a bad dancer.
Pre-teen years were spent holding up the slick walls of middle school gymnasiums and slyly engaging in mindless chatter with classmates in order to delay joining in on any sort of freak train situation, but a friend eventually taught me how to pop my hips so my wallflower stage was short-lived. After that, off went the top of my overalls and into the center of dance circles I went, butterflying and bodyrolling as my suspender clips jerked around my waist like the arms of the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Dancing Car Man.
My confidence grinding and throwing elbows at dance parties took off, and in college I ended up as a background dancer on Soul Train. It’s actually pretty dorky, but at the time I thought I was boss. I’d get super dressed up, slip on some absurd push-up bra and clunky Steve Madden wedges and head to the studio, where I’d be handed a lukewarm box of KFC in lieu of pay and be given the task of head-bobbing. The real dancers were paired up with partners, I was just background noise. But, shit. Did you get to head-bob on Soul Train? I think not.
Something’s happened in the last 10 years, though, where I forgot how to do all that damn good grinding and head-bobbing. I just jump now. Up and down. Drunk or sober, it doesn’t matter. That’s all my body knows how to do now.
Do I take a class? Do I give up? Find old VHS tapes of my famed head-bobbing for inspiration? HALP!