Hippity Hoppity

It was brought to my attention recently that I was going to come up one unit short in my requirements for graduation. One teen tiny unit. To rectify the situation I had to sign up for either a three-unit health class or a one-unit dance class. I chose the dance class. Hip Hop. I did not subject myself to a hip hop class because it sounded like fun, but because I couldn't fit a three-unit health class into my already tight schedule. Now that I have actually attended my first hip hop class... I wish I would have made room for health.

My day started around 5:30 AM with the incessant beeping of my alarm clock. Traditionally I prefer to see 5:30 AM from the other direction: after a long night of Bloody Marys, but school has forced me to to align myself more closely to the circadian rhythms of life. In my haste to get to class on time (and still get my fresh baked morning bagel from Lock, Stock, and Bagel), I threw on a sweatshirt and running pants -the kind of pants that make that swoosh swoosh sound when you walk...and with thighs like mine, occasional sparks-, and headed off to my early morning lecture. Six hours and two lectures later I began the long trek to my very first hip hop class.

Last year I took a golf class, but since golfing and an indoor gymnasium tend to be incongruent, I had never actually seen the inside of our school's gym and I had NO IDEA where room "G-101-E" was located. Fortunately, a few girls ahead of me seemed to be heading in the same general direction, so I just followed the herd (the really really skinny heard) in front of me. After I hiked the hill and found the door they had entered, I convinced myself that I wasn't huffing and puffing all that much, and I walked into my class. As I opened the gym door, I discovered that room "G-101-E" was, in fact, not a room at all. "G-101-E" was just a section of bleachers located on the opposite side of the indoor basketball court I was dripping sweat upon. The entire class was quietly perched on the bleachers and staring directly at me. I was on center stage in hell. The silence of the gym was broken by my thighs rubbing together as I walked the length of the court. Somehow, the usual swoosh swoosh of my pants had changed it's sound and all I heard was, "plusss sizzze, plusss sizzze" as I tried to blend in with the wall and go unnoticed.

As I arrived to my chosen spot on the bleachers, I began to take assessment of the students I would spend the next eighteen weeks with. It was necessary to quickly locate the classmates that would validate my existence by being so underqualified for this class that they would immediately swing the bell curve to my advantage... I was looking for old ladies and fat chicks. To my delight and great relief, I was sitting among two oldies and four fatties (self not included). I had struck gold. I found a beefcake that I could even hide behind during any "bouncing" part of the class. As I began crafting my master plan of creating a spot behind a beefcake and next to the sixty-five year old crack-head the door across the gym entered and our instructor walked through.

I kid you not, this is an actual picture of my instructor (I found it online!)

To my horror, in walked the girl that I had been silently making fun while I ate my cheeseburger and fries in the cafeteria during lunch! (I think we can all see the psychological significance of my resentment towards her.) She was wearing four-inch spiked heels, a mini-skirt, and a t-shirt that really enhanced her aftermarket accessories. Obviously there would be no hip hop for us today. I realized at that point that this is not a thing I can charm my way out of. It doesn't matter if I am the smartest, nicest, or funniest girl in the class... all that matters is that I will be forced to hip hop for eighteen weeks in front of an aspiring porn star I think her porn name would be Butter Face!

PS... For those of you who don't know what a Butter Face is... click here to check it out!!