Hip Hop Flop

I got to the gym too early.  Unaccustomed to not having that 10 minutes of time spent dropping the littles off in childcare, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.  Studio A was empty and I wasn't about to just go in there in wait.  So I chose to walk laps around the indoor track which circles the perimeter of my entire gym-- passing by the basketball court, weight machines, spin room, and enabling 360 degree views of the glass walled Studio A in which I was about to take my first hip hop class.

Upon my first lap, I noticed a chalk clapboard sign telling me the teacher of the new hip hop class was named Jordan.  Great, I thought, that tells me nothing.  Could be a man or a woman.  With each lap,my anxiety grew.  Would I be the oldest person in the class?  The least coordinated?  The fattest?  Would everyone be wearing red and black ninja costumes, knee pads, and a silver pair of Puma high tops?  I recognize that these questions are stupid, given the make-up of my gym.  ACAC is one of 12 clubs in the country that is a certified Medical Fitness Facility as it has physical therapists, nurses, and doctors on staff.  My post bed rest physical therapy is what got me in there to begin with.  So there are all types at my gym--very large people, very young people, very old people who rock out on the arm bike and stepper machines, the skinny mommies whose spine I can see through their stretched out belly button (that I want to feed bacon to), and just regular people.  I choose to believe I fall into the regular people category.  If you disagree with me, please keep your mouth shut.  My favorite group of people are THE MEN.  By THE MEN, I am referring to a group of about 5 men in their sixties who work out together everyday.  They own the place.  All of them are relatively fit, pretty good looking, and know everybody. My buddy Jack is in this group and is a stud.  (Don't worry, Sloan thinks he is a stud too.  My friend Ann used to make fun of us because it seemed like Sloan and I were trying to "couple date" Jack and his wife.  We were--but they are out of our league.)  THE MEN are not here in the afternoon during hip hop class time; they hold court between 9 and 11am.  So I just circled the main floor and by my fourth lap my imagination had me wearing tap shoes and a bee costume amidst a sea of multi-ethnic breakdancers.

It does not help matters when I notice there are now people in Studio A.  And by people, I mean three men, in their early twenties, busting out a breakdance routine.  And literally, my fears are coming true--I will be in a class with a mutli-ethnic hip hop crew.  I can discern by the Madonna styled-head microphone that the black guy in front is Jordan, although I've decided to call him Twitch.  Oddly enough, convincing myself that the instructor is a So You Think You Can Dance all-star does not reduce my anxiety. The other two gentlemen I dub "Legacy" (because he is a Latino B-boy, duh) and "Asian B-Boy".  Great, I think, it's a veritable SYTYCD who's who in there.  Alex didn't really get injured, he's just  moonlighting as a ringer in my hip hop class.  Oh yippee, he is going from a worm to a helicopter move.  Booya.

So I stopped by the info desk and ask one of my favorite trainers, "So, Kelly, do you think I'm going to be the oldest, fattest, and whitest person in the hip hop class?"  She assured me that no, she loves the class and were she not literally having a baby tomorrow she'd be in there with me. (Sidebar--she is so fit that just days before I asked her if her baby was due in September or October.  False. She was 40 weeks.)
 
At this point, a gaggle of people have begun to congregate around the doorway of Studio A.  My shoulders begin to relax.  It seems I am not the only person to be a bit apprehensive about entering Twitch's Jordan's class.  When I recognize a girl who was in Peter Pan with my nieces, I begin to breathe.  I mean, she can't be more than 11 and her Mom appears less ready for hip hop than I am.  There are several Mommy and me kiddie combos.   And there is Napoleon Dynamite--a gangly teenage boy in glasses, black sweatpants, a wife-beater style tank that shows off his collar bones and ribcage.  He has thick glasses. He's the type of teenage boy whose largest parts of this boys' body are his knees and nose.  And he is wearing these super-weird shoes that have thick soles and then nothing in the arch.  (I've just spent an hour online trying to link up a pick, but seriously cannot find them.  But let me be clear, they were odd shoes.  Crazier than those running socks.)  I imagine a Mom convincing her awkward son to take a few hip hop classes in the hopes of him either building some muscle or becoming less dorky.  And just as I'm about to chuckle at my classmates, and think I've got this one in the bag, I remember that at least in the movie, Napoleon Dynamite has got the moves.  Big time. 

I position myself in the back right corner of the classroom.  In fact, I am almost in the closet with the bodypump stuff.  The fact that I didn't have to fight anyone for this spot shocks me.  And so, with a little Justin Timberlake cranked up, we begin to warm up.  It's your standard step to the left and punch your arm Billy Blanks stuff.  Just a lot of it, really fast.  I notice that the Asian B-boy's shirt, which looks very Ed Hardy-esque, says things like "Saved by Grace" and "The truth will set you free."  I want to fist pump him and say, "Hey, you know Jesus?  I know him too!"  So I quickly rename him Bboy for Jesus. 

Unfortunately, also during the warm up, I realize that I have chosen the completely WRONG thing to wear.  I was wearing this black Old Navy V-neck tshirt.  I forgot it was one of those super comfy shirts that seem to stretch as the day wears on.  They stretch even quicker when drenched in sweat.  Seriously, the neckline was growing every minute to the point that it might as well been called Flashdance class.  And you can see that, well, um, I have to wear two bras.  One blue sports bra over a regular one.  To lift the uniboob, you know?  The double bra means that basically my cleavage goes straight up to my neck.  Which is awesome.  Also, as my shirt begins to stretch, it starts sort of lifting away from my body.  I have to decide which to show--the bubbies or the belly.  I tried hiking up my shorts, but then I got a camel toe.  (Meanwhile, I'm still rocking out to JT while trying to avoid a wardrobe malfunction.  Ironic, no?)  In the end, I decided to pretend it was totally cool to show off your sports bra when it is blue.  My little nod to US Women's Soccer. 

After warming up, Twitch Jordan showed us the routine with the disclaimer that it would be perfect for all of the new people in the class as it had a slower R & B feel.  And I'll just say, the dance was pretty easy.  I actually was a bit disappointed in that.  I wanted to discover I had secret helicopter and head spin skillz.  But then I remembered that a gym hip hop class would not have difficult choreography or people wouldn't show up.  Which made me feel like a superior dancer to my classmates.  Which.  I.   Loved.

The only real difficult thing about the class was that after taking a decades worth of dance classes, I am accustomed to learning steps while counting 8.  I keep tabs on what step goes with what count, so that at some point, my body begins to associate the steps with the rhythm of the song and I can just sort of let the rhythm get me, a la Gloria Estefan.  Twitch taught us the moves according to the lyrics (which, admittedly would have been more helpful had he remembered all of the lyrics as most of the moves were just a sort of urban pantomime). 

I am eager to continue my hip hop classes, even if it does mean that I won't be learning how to helicopter or walk on my head.  I am, however, thinking that some silver Pumas may be in order.  'Cause nothing makes a grapevine look more hip hop than the right pair of kicks.