“Didn’t…didn’t you used to have that on the other side?”
– Young Frankenstein
I was an excellent dancer my whole life, but two years of marriage to a man who Does Not Dance has turned my once innate sense of rhythm into a sort of limping flail. My toes may be perfectly pointed but my African dance arm circles do lack some finesse, my samba steps may be lightening quick but my “hip hop” (note the sarcastic airquotes) could use some work. But what I now lack in technicality I make up for in enthusiasm.
Riding a wave of said enthusiasm last night, I decided, “Margot’s in California for the weekend, I’ve nothing else to do tonight and two exercise classes in a row won’t kill me.”
Boredom produces frightening effects in me, kittens. It was brutal. But it wasn’t until halfway through class number two that I realized that I was probably doing something personally embarrassing – beyond the obvious movement of my bum in improbable directions. Then the girl behind me tipped me off, she was staring at my back and every time my gyrations turned me about I got a quick glimpse of her puzzled face. I pieced it together during the cool down period. My workout top had a hood, but when putting it on, apparently the hood had gotten turned inside out and stuck on inside my shirt. Creating a sort of hunch. That moved about as I did. Enthusiastically.