Future Fat Ass

Today we had a bomb scare in our office building. We almost got to go home all day but that damn bomb robot figured out it was fake dynamite and we ended up only getting the morning off. Which we spent in a bar, having beer (a bunch of us) and chicken fingers (just me) and WATCHING OURSELVES ON TV. Yes, that's right. A group of us were filmed by the CBS 46 news team, because we provided the most accurate visual portrayal of "employees evacuated and worried". Of all the employees in the whole building, WE looked most worried. And most evacuated. I don't like to brag, but I got an extreme close-up. I was talking on my cell phone, a look of heightened concern on my face. I mean, it actually was some of my best work. And I have done a LOT of TV, my friends. I have been on the Today Show (my dad says he saw me). Also, at age 8 I did a little stint on the local PBS station in which I discussed the history of Jacksonville, my home city. Did you know it was once named Cowford? No, no you did not. Well it was.

Anyway. Tina looked pretty good as well. She was in more of what I like to call an ensemble shot. Even so, she was clearly the one flower among a bunch of weeds.

So. What I realized as a result of having to climb DOWN 14 flights of stairs when the fire alarm went off, is that I am out of shape. In fact that is the definition of out of shape: What you are when your calf muscles shake and you nearly die after climbing DOWN 14 flights of stairs. Not even up. So I need to work out, and the admission of this makes my fingers shrivel and ache just from typing it. The thing is, how can anyone LIKE to work out? How is it normal to run and run or climb and climb and not get anywhere? Also the thing about working out in a gym is that you are never done. You never learn or graduate or finish. You are going to have to go do it again tomorrow. I HATE IT. I hate it worse than people who don't share COOKIES.

Two hundred years ago, no one had to work out in gyms because instead they churned butter and built furniture and held babies. They accomplished something, and as a side effect they stayed skinny and muscley. I could become Amish, but realistically I'm far too reliant on things like pop-tarts and Entourage and birth control pills. So this afternoon my little brain starts milling over my options. Likes: Nice hineys. Strong calves. Flexibility. Cupcakes. Dislikes: Sneakers. Meatheads. Cellulite. For me, the least painful avenue to take seems to be Old Faithful- dance classes. Tine and I used to take B-girl classes (that's breakdancing for you sucka emcees) at this dance studio called Dance 101, but I never really looked at what else they have there. Dang, once I looked at their website I couldn't even believe it! You never saw so many cool dance classes in your life. They have a ballet class where you wear weights on your arms and legs! A bellydancing class that comes with free coin scarf rental! Some class where you learn the entire opening number of A Chorus Line! And there, halfway down the list, a class MADE for me: HIP. HOP. TAP.

There are few things I love more than my tap shoes. It's like playing drums with your feet, and I am good. Or I was once. But let's face it, when's the last time you saw a tap dancer in a music video (if you bring up Paula Abdul I will not like you). Tap Dancers are the nerds of the dance world. Loud, ungraceful, unloved. So you learn to hide your love of tap at an early age. But could it be? Could it be that there are people out there like me, who yearn to tie up those taps and do a little Stomp Buck time step to some Missy Elliot? I am so excited about this prospect, I can hardly wait for class on Saturday. For now I will go home and shine up my old taps. Cause I'm Mookie on the microphone. I'm stupid fresh, that's the shit I'm on. WOOOOOOOP.