Is The Jig Up?

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The most horrific thing happened to me the other night. A friend of mine expressed her newfound affinity for Diamond of Crime Mob. Naturally, that automatically gave me the urge to turn on Ms. 32 Flavors classic, “Rock Yo Hips,” and feel the inspiration from her bars about her bootylicious bubblegum.

But, as I was I tried to soda, pop it, and watch it sizzle my body seemed a bit off. It wasn’t the shizzle, if you will.

Like, even homie here would’ve gotten me.

I told another friend that something seemed off and do you know what she said?

“You’re getting old, I bet you just can’t move like that anymore.”

To quote the great Stephanie Tanner, “How rude.”

I immediately sprang into action. I stretched. I then proceeded to chant “jig, get it big” in an effort to motivate my body to get back into its rightful groove. Tina Turner and others Buddhists have “nam-myoho-renge-kyo,” I have “jig, get it big.”

After that I took the most important step: I went and grabbed my Seagram’s Sweet Tea Vodka and Simply Lemonade and made a drink. Before I continue on with the story let me just say: Drink responsibly (and shit).

Now, after I drank everything came into place. OK, after a few drinks — spare me your judgment. Grown up tea mixes/Arnold Palmers are fantastic.

For years no one thought I could dance. These years are basically before April 12, 2005 — when I couldn’t buy alcohol. The only other time I can dance sober is the morning, hence the morning jig on Twitter. I think a lot of that had to do with me realizing early on that when I dance you can tell which team I swing my club towards.

Club means penis. So yeah, depending on the song it’s kind of easy to figure me out at that point. Or as one of my good friends once said, “Michael, you dance like a faggot.”

She meant it as a compliment. I told her she was a mean lesbian who I hope ends up with a Baptist preacher. One with the facial hair of Rick Ross and the fashion sense of the Brawny man.

Anyhow, It made me uncomfortable for the longest because I already knew that. Happy Hour and Beyonce gave me the motivation to dip it, pop it, twirk it, stop it. Just be….on the ground.

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I’ll always be grateful, Queen.

Video of me having a flex off in a parking lot on a Sunday afternoon or dancing to Project Pat on a public sidewalk may suggest otherwise, but I still get shy sometimes. I haven’t completely overcome it, but I’m better than I used to be. Sadly, I now worry that my knees won’t be ready when that day comes.

And who am I if I can’t sweep the flo’ with it? A writer? Uh, you have to be a multi-tasker these days. Kim Kardashian is famous for nothing in several different arenas these days. And Ellen just isn’t a comedian, talk show host, judge, and non-threatening lesbian; she’s also a jigger.

I have to be able to write funny, thought-provoking material and still be able to make my friends say, “We can’t take him no where.”

Do I need to like start doing yoga or something? I’m open for ideas.

In the meantime, I’d like to recount some of my best days:

1. Dancing at an ATM station in the West Village at 3:00 a.m. with one of my favorite people in the world shouting, “Shake it for me, Mike. Shake it for me.” Pause. She’s a lady.

2. Going out with my friend, Michael, and watching him talk to potential sponsors (him, not me) while I grab my iPod and dance to a medley of hits with a fence at 5:00 a.m. I was 21 and just coming out. Fun was had.

3. Hearing “Gimme More” in the black same sex spot and dancing all the way to the ground then proceeding to swing from under the rail somehow only to rise back up and drop again. I remember one of my friends going, “Where did he go?” Then they looked down. I really liked the song, ya’ll.

Sidenote: Another week the song came on again and I grinded with some chick whose skirt was basically wrapped around her navel. After we got off the ground I asked her if she had a brother. She had a cousin, but not too cute. I went to find my friends.

4. Having one my first friend at Howard describe my dancing as, “Yeah, Mike, you dance really sexual. Like it’s the first of the month and rent is due.”

5. Dancing with my gorgeous niece to “Tatted Up.” No twirks, just nice southern and kid-friendly jigs. I treasure family time with my lovely.

I’m almost tearing up writing this (and I don’t like to cry — I ain’t no punk bitch) because I worry that these moments may never happen again.

Aging really sucks. Thank goodness Madonna and my Houston hood’s neighborhood crackhead/schizophrenic give me hope that I’ll still be happy to pop, pop that thing well into AARP subscription age.

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