Yesterday, figuring that I should try something different from step aerobics every once in a while, I went to the hip-hop/funk class at my gym.
This turned out to be a big, big, big mistake.
The class was taught by someone whose name ought to have been Shoshana, though it wasn’t. She was a white woman, probably in her late thirties, with two pigtails. Not the type of person you’d think would be particularly good at hip-hop.
But you’d be wrong.
She showed us a combination (I suspect you don’t call them “combinations” in hip-hop/funk class, but I don’t really know what you do call them, so I’ll call them combinations) and I was like, okay, I can learn that. It’ll take me a while, but I can learn that.
And then she kept going.
Of course, every single other person in the class was having absolutely no trouble at all following her. But what not-Shoshana was doing was so complicated and difficult that I wasn’t even thinking about what a moron I looked like, because if I’d diverted one iota of mental energy to that, I would have tripped over my own legs and fallen and broken something.
After about ten more minutes of St. Vitusesque lurching, I came to a very simple realization:
I am not funky.
So I left, got some dinner, and went home to write.