I wrote a piece for the Man Repeller Writer’s Club Prompt a week or so ago. It wasn’t selected, but I still think it’s worth reading. So here you are!

Allow me to break down the scene for you.

Outfit: Neon and Sweat Soaked

Location: Somewhere alongside the road

Activity: Sprinting (Read: Jogging) … (Read: Jog/Walking) …

Motivation: Beyoncé’s booty

Headphones: Fastened securely to my head and blasting Get Low Radio via Pandora

In the midst of all this, a vision unfolds.

I’m up in the club and will be turning down for no one…despite the fact that I’m claustrophobic and would probably have a mild panic attack should this fantasy suddenly turn to real life.

Nevertheless.

Strobe lights flash and the music pounds.

Slowly the crowd begins to ebb, forming a circle around one person, nay, one deity of dance as she casually tears up the floor.

The surrounding mortals stare in wonder, heads shaking. Tiny slips of paper with phone numbers scrawled on them fall in abundance like snow flakes over the figure twerking expertly in the center of it all, blithely unaware of her cheering fans.

That’s right, folks. If I could do it all over again, I’d start taking hip hop dance lessons as soon as I could totter on my voluptuous (actual word used by my doctor to describe me as an infant) little legs. Alas, instead I was kicked out of ballet class at age three. Apparently swinging from the barre is not a condoned activity in ballerina world. I never fully recovered from my shame.

One time, on a cruise to Mexico, my friend Kristen and I took a hip hop dance class. I entered the tourist-infested room expecting to be hailed as the most talented student they’d ever seen. Clearly the next step would be a starring role in Step Up 6: At it Again. But after failing to excel in the first lesson, which may or may not have been walking in a straight line, Kristen and I were forced to take our talents elsewhere, namely the karaoke machine.

My dream died that day, living on only in the form of mid-jog delusions, so often interrupted by leg cramps and frequent pauses to weeze attractively.

At 23, I’m a classical music school graduate whose most legitimate work experience to date is brunch-spot bartending and teaching six-year-olds where Middle C is on the ole piano keyboard. I’d love to say it’s not too late to realize my dreams of winning Season 357 of So You Think You Can Dance. However, my past failures have inflicted wounds which no amount of popping, locking nor dropping will ever be able to heal.

Here’s to living that uncoordinated life. Forever and always.

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