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Tuesday, March 15, 2005

What if I don't want to come into your world

I promise never to make bad jokes about JLo. Or at least, until the bones above my kidneys stop hurting. Last night was my first attempt at Jazz class. Now, I have abolutely no dance background whatsoever (unless you count those pathetic excuses for ballet lessons I had when I was five, in which we simply bounced around wearing tight pink outfits, learning nothing remotely useful I can recall). Although every sign for the class indicated it required no previous experience, 5 minutes into the lesson made me realise an important Life's lesson: Never trust signs.

Already into the warm-up and finding myself sprawled on the battered wooden floor no doubt countless others had sprawled themselves upon in the past, I could hear my inner voice of self-preservation screaming in indignance 'This is so not designed for beginners!!!', followed by 'What the hell would the normal classes be like!?'

The trainer, clad in tight black dancer shorts, was rather entertaining. Unfortunately, the thing about having a male trainer guiding one (such as myself with a negligible sense of body coordination) through dance steps is that he's really intimidatingly good at executing moves, especially those requiring body strength. So most of the time, I am inwardly gawking stupidly at his amazing super dance physique and feeling my ego shrivel up into a little prune.

And then the guy tells us he's going to teach us the choregraphy to the accompaniment of JLo's second new single Come into my world. (And yes, there was a running joke about the song title and our unremakably unseductive dance moves) The very suggestion put towards me is laughable. I cannot remember dance steps to save my life. It seems that my brain has only been hard-wired into memorising words and pictures, beyond that nothing else. I somehow found it ambitious when dance instructor guy wanted us to lift our legs and lower back straight into the air using our (supposed) backward rolling momentum so that we balanced only on our shoulder blades, maneuver our (supposed) straight pointed legs up-and-down to the beat and roll ourselves back upright for the next barrage of steps.

Well, in the end, as excruciating as that may have been (I am aching - but that could have been more due to Friday's kickboxing), at least I had learnt JLo-worthy dance steps! Now, if only I could remember them in a few days time...

en at 12:45 pm