It's a big week! I've beaten my previous record for most eclectic sentence pertaining to New York activities.
A Certain Someone: What are you up to today?
Me: Well, I just saw a Chihuahua get hit by a taxi, now I’m eating a sno-cone at a Ukrainian street festival. What are you up to?
New sentence:
Last night I went to Norman Mailer’s book signing, tomorrow I’m going to hip-hop class.
Yes, really. I made the mistake of doing “beginner” ballet a few months ago and while it wasn’t advanced in the toe-shoe-and-anorexia sense, the teacher and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on what beginner entailed. I thought it meant a little barre work and some simple combinations. I shone on the barre, sandwiched between some NYU girls and a 70-year-old woman, but the next thing I knew I was trying to simultaneously translate French terms and figure out how to do them. I flailed like a fish who had pirouetted out of her fishbowl while the teacher called out “Battement! Arabesque! Fouetté! Rond de Jambe!” I Jetéd the hell on out the door.
I have higher hopes for hip-hop. My friend knows the teacher, and she keeps stressing how easy it is, how much fun it is, how the teacher just choreographed a Nike ad. I keep stressing how very very white I am. I gave her a sample of my spastic arm-and-feet-jerking that I call dance. She said the teacher can work with me.
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