When I Dip, You Dip, We Dip

Forget terrorist attacks, the high price of oil, or the shrinking gender gap. A sweeping social change is being brought about by a little show called “So You Think You Can Dance.”

Now, I’ve never been accused of being a dancer. I surrendered my tap shoes and bedazzled leotards when I was 7, as soon as I had the option of giving up dance for basketball. As a result, my mantra of “It doesn’t matter how good you are but how cute you look in your uniform” really cannot apply in this situation. I don’t have a dance uniform anymore. In fact, I distinctly remember feeling humiliated at my 8th grade dance. In the 7th grade it was entirely acceptable to just stand around and chat, but it became unacceptable to stand on the edges of the dance floor and watch once you hit 13. To be one of the cool kids, you had to actually jump in there and “dance.” I was a hopeless tomboy, though, and it was all wrong when I joined that circle of girls and tried to sway and dip and throw my body into some sort of rhythmic fashion. Perhaps that is why I find the aforementioned show to be absolutely fascinating. I was a hater in the beginning. Last night I came home to find my roommates glued to the television, discussing these contestants’ strengths and weaknesses in technique and using first names. Unbeknownst to me, they’ve invested quite a bit of Wednesday nights to FOX. Last night was a doubleheader, and I’m gonna put myself out there and say it.

I’m hooked.

It was brilliant. I wanted to stand up, grab a partner, and throw myself into a modern interpretation of Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” or a hip-hop number to the tune of Chingy’s “Dem Jeans.” In my mind I was beautiful, and thin, and lithe, and capable of all manner of interpretive dance.

In my mind.

Which leads me to wonder how many millions of people across the nation feel as I do. How many are taken with the notion of becoming “a dancer?” Are we soon to see couples meandering along the streets in ball gowns and three piece suits, headed to ballroom dance class? Will we be witness to dancing in the aisles of grocery stores or even (heaven help us) “Dance Fridays” at the office?

One can only hope.

I'm Gonna Be Famous!

The most exciting thing just crossed my mind. It's occurred to me that in response to the influx of extremely important actors moving to Nashvegas (well, one, but it’s Nicole Kidman for gosh sake!) paparazzi shall soon follow suit and begin flashing away in our dear village of Nash. Odds are very high you’ll see my shoulder, elbow, or butt cheek making a cameo in People, Us Weekly, etc.

Needless to say, I am going to turn the tables on these paparazzi. Henceforth, I shall stalk them. Jump in front of their cameras every chance I get, flash a little Hook ‘Em Horns…

You just wait.

Turtlenecks in July

As I type, I am blowing warm recycled air out of my lungs and onto my icy fingers. My legs are wrapped in a giant fleece, and for my toes, there is no hope.

I would like to put my summer wardrobe to use, but as it is, I am keen on wearing sweaters and wool trousers to work everyday. Why? Because what has become the norm in the working world is making me miserable. While 90+ degress outside, it is a frosty 60 degrees in my "area."

I’m onto them. I suppose they've devised a new method of “forcing out” an employee – it’s a little game they like to call, Freeze the Bitch. My alcove I now refer to, lovingly, as my igloo. I expect little penguins and giant Coca-Cola bears to come wandering over at any moment now. My orchid, which enjoys humid, tropical weather, is very angry and looking rather ill. As a result of my location, no one has really bothered to come check on me. For all they know I could be frozen to my chair and unable to get up. Therefore, I suffer my fate alone.

I’ll give ‘em this much. It’s a valiant effort, but they will not succeed. I will continue in my state, even if I have to build a fire out of pencils and old file folders. I’m not going anywhere…unless a hot Eskimo comes to whisk me away, but I digress…