To the hip-hop, you don't stop

We Did Survive!
(By Michelle "Gloria Gaynor" Curran.)

At first we were afraid,
We were petrified.
Kept thinking we could never dance
We wanted just to hide.

Then we got up there on stage and the curtain opened up
And we said whassup!!???
And then we kicked some hip-hop butt.....

We did it! My two friends and I survived our hip-hop recital yesterday afternoon. After weeks of agonizing about getting up there on stage and shaking our 30-something bodies in front of hundreds of people, it's over. For me, it was kind of an out-of-body experience. For hours before the show, I felt as if I was going to puke my guts out. I was going to get up on stage and forget the whole damn thing, leaving my girls in the lurch. Fortunately, Rich and I had formulated a plan beforehand. Should I have forgotten the moves, the plan was to do the moon-walk back and forth across the stage until the song was over. Even more fortunate, I didn't need to go to plan B. I remembered everything and actually (and perhaps shamefully) enjoyed it. I had fun. I smiled for the audience, whom thankfully I couldn't see thanks to the glaring spotlights. There were no mishaps and we didn't get laughed or booed off the stage. And our husbands luckily left before the humiliating finale in which we received medals and had to sing for the audience.

And after all the complaining I did about class and rehearsals and costumes, I will probably do it again next year. I think I may have found my true calling. Show business.

Thanks to our crazy-whack-funky (and super talented) dance teacher April Nicoll, who should not be teaching the likes of us to dance, but should be dancing herself. She actually encouraged me NOT to quit, for which I am ultimately glad.

Breaking News Update: Stay tuned for a clip of our performance in the coming weeks.

Why A 30-Something Should NOT be a hip-hop dancer

For weeks, I'd been waking up on Tuesday mornings with multiple hematomas spread across my knees and shins, the cause of which may have been misinterpreted by more dirty-minded individuals. (Come on, you KNOW you are out there.)

These bruises, however, I am ashamed to admit, are caused by my weekly hip hop sessions. Think multiple knee spins with nothing between your knees and the cold, wooden floors but a pair of cotton sweat pants. Finally, after last week's train wreck, I'd had it and this week caved and went to Olympia and bought some knee pads. Yes, I need a pair of knee pads, please, for hip-hop dancing. Yes! I said hip-hop dancing.

Anyway, this last dance class was on, and I was spinning with the best of 'em, my knees cushioned by a thick piece of heaven. Now if I could only, actually, dance!

Hip Hop Addendum

A couple of weeks ago, I humiliatingly revealed the costume I would be forced to wear during a hip hop (yes - I said hip hop) recital I am reluctantly participating in this summer.

I am pleased to report that I learned last night that the following changes would be instituted. Over the red "Dance!" leotard, we will be wearing cropped black hoodies - old school, I love it. And second, we will be trading the candy cane tights for black, BAGGY!, cargo pants. Nice.

That part is a relief. What isn't, is that at last night's class, I was miserably lost, having missed the previous session. I basically stood at the back of the room laughing and getting pissed and threatening to quit. Honestly, I don't think anyone much cared.

I never thought it would come to this

Does this look like an outfit that a 30-something stay-at-home-mom would wear? Ok. Well, any self-respecting, 30-something stay-at-home mom?

As readers of Singuloso may know, a couple of months ago I, along with a couple of friends, decided to partake in a hip-hop dance class at a local studio, DESPITE the fact that there would be a recital at the end of the class.

The class was everything I thought it would be - stomping around to the likes of Kanye West in baggy sweatpants and tee-shirts, a suburban dose of 'street.' Now I will be made to look like a deranged, dancing candy-striper. (Yes, the tight-fitting bodice, in shiny, glittery, silver lettering, indeed reads DANCE.) What's worse is that I am not the slim and fit person I was in college. Doubly worse? During our routine - which by the way will not be done to a hip-hop diddy, but an N'Sync Christmas song (the theme is dancing through the holidays) - a group of 7 year old tumblers will join us on stage - WEARING THE SAME COSTUME!

The possibility of quitting just before the recital still exists for me. And each time I look at that costume, rumpled up in a plastic bag in my closet, that possibility becomes increasingly real. But (and at this point it's a big but(t), literally and figuratively) should I decide to join in this circus, I will NOT be posting the recital date here on Singuloso.

Adventures in Hip Hop

Monday was lesson two of my quest to become Kanye West's new backup dancer. They way I figure it, the most talented man in Hip Hop should have the most talented female dancer appearing by his side.

Two friends and I decided a few weeks ago that we would take a Hip Hop dance class at a local dance studio. It was my idea actually, as I have always fancied myself a hip-hopper, ever since the day, oh so many years ago, I made up a routine to TLC's "Hat to da back." I still remember it to this day.

We're in the "advanced" class, not because of our exploding talent so much, but because the time worked out for us. I'm proud to say we are keeping up and are giving Beyonce a run for her money. Ok, not so much. But the instructor, who is extremely talented, hasn't kicked us out yet.

We've been working on a routine to West's "Stronger," and when I practiced it in front of my son, (of course screaming toddler-appropriate words over West's profanities), he actually said, "That's great mommy," and walked away. He's two.

Anyway: The pros: hip-hop is a great workout and a good stress reliever, not to mention a way for me to retain my "streetness." The cons: There is a recital at the end of the year. And no, I will not be telling you when it is.