It’s 4:45 a.m. and I have just discovered my new hero. Lately a wave of sadness has overcome me. It’s all rooted in my twirk. I have prided myself on my ability to dip it low, pick it up slow, roll it all around and make my back go. Pop, pop, pop, pop that thang, if you will. However, in recent weeks something has been amiss.
About a month ago I was doing my usual pre-writing all night ritual: Turning on some music and dancing really hard and ignorant to it in an effort to get my mind right. I was listening to Rihanna’s “What’s My Name?” and as I was body rolling I noticed an unnatural stiffness going on. The same for my drop. I tried to shake it off – literally – and still…nothing.
My heart began to ache. The pain only intensified as the struggle continued on at other places and times where I like to dance. You know, the gym, the side walk, the grocery store aisles. Oh and of course restaurants while breaking into random song and rap lyrics (however, make a note that I do not like karaoke). Other people noticed my growing problem and were equally taken aback.
If I’m not dancing then who am I? My best friend won’t be able to call me “Twirky” anymore. I’ll lose my “jelly knees” description. It all sounds so…wrong.
I mean, I still get it in. I’m actually in my chair body rolling to Jodeci’s “Pump It Back” as I type this. In a second I’m about to get up and try it a drop. Wait for it…
…okay, I’m back.
Yet, it’s not what it used to be. Am I getting older? Unless you have a great surgeon and the disposable income (yours or a sponsors, no judgment), we all are. There’s no excuse, though. Jennifer Lopez is 40 and still goes off. Beyoncé is about to turn 30 and is showing no signs of giving the lessors a break. So age isn’t it. It’s me.
Realizing that sent me into a tizzy: I don’t want to be Britney Spears!
And this is Sedated Spears on a good day. I’m not ’bout this life, y’all. The most interesting thing about all of this is that I actually didn’t dance in public until I was 21. Now when I finally did I was incredibly drunk and on a “Crazy In Love” high at a club called Luke & Leroys in the West Village. Yes, the one where I proposed to a Ivey League school attending bartender with a ring pop. The point is I was finally moving.
I didn’t used to dance because I was told that “I dance like a faggot.” My friend – the evil lesbian I often refer to as Satana on the site – told me that. As a compliment. I hate that word, but took no offense. It did remind me of all those years I avoided dancing in public. That and being fat enough to have boy breasts. I wasn’t gonna do the bounce in person and have to compete with my own chest. The sad part is because of all this insecurity I missed my prime break ’em off years. That’s since then why I’ve cherished every well executed drop.
Among my favorites included my lanky ass hitting the ground at the speed of light to “Gimme More” while swinging under some rail and then proceeding to rinse and repeat. Or being recorded grinding on a Bank of America ATM at the 4:00 in the morning as my gorgeous friend I call “Soopawoman” shouted, “Shake it for me, Mike!”
Granted, I could never be a professional dancer but I’ve been good enough to be a professional. When the very first friend I made at Howard University saw me dance, she told me, “You dance really like sexual. Like it’s the first of the month and the rent is due.” For the record, the rent stays due.
These are some of my fondest memories. So it’s like when I drop to the ground and possibly debasing myself and embarrassing the race, I’m doing it for self-esteem! Or freedom! Or something else that sounds really positive!
Before you even try to get slick at me in the comments sections, yes, I’m being facetious. I don’t wanna end up like one of those uncles you tell to sit down at the family reunion (that is, if I ever went to one of those).
I’ve decided to finally use my Livingsocial Bikram Yoga deal to work on my flexibility, which will only help me get that old thing back. Yeah, it will be all healthy and shit, too.
I will say, though, that even if I don’t get it back completely I can look to women like your smashed auntie in the clip. The title of video is, “What beat is she dancing to?” More than likely it’s the one made by her homeboy, DJ Paul Masson. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Do you see how she gave not one fuck about her surroundings or her rhythm being in need of an Amber Alert?
She broke out on the dance floor, popped that pelvis and said, “Don’t nobody give a damn about y’all line dance, Negroes.” She looks completely free (and yes, drunk, but free sounds better to stay with me). I hope I never lose that feeling.