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New Dance Class

So. Given my proclivities, I find that an hour and a half of a striptease class was way the fuck harder than biking 25 miles.

Seriously, y'all. When I signed on for “Burlesque” class, I was totally expecting Vaudvillian campiness and total cheese and corn. Instead, I'm expected to make like the sexy? I'm so the hell out of my comfort zone it ain't even funny. This may be a bigger disaster than bellydancing.

I'm like the class-clown type, not the seductive temptress type. I kept thinking the most ludicrous thoughts throughout class and about busting myself up. I swear sometimes I have all three Stooges, Beavis & Butthead, and possibly a Marx brother living inside of my head.

Also, my my monkeygirl tomboy bearing really adds a special sort of challenge to “sensual” movement. It's kind of like training a pitbull to jump through a circus poodle's hoop. Sure, she can do it, but it doesn't really look the same.

One more thought: What the hell is it with dance teachers and “energy?” I swear to dog I can't take a class without the teacher going all hippydippyflaketastic and telling me to project energy through my fingertips or something. And then I can't help but think “Kaaaaaaa-maaaay-haaa-maaaaaaay-haaaaaaa!”

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