Thank goodness I was not standing in front of a mirror. There was no need to see my reflection. I could feel what was happening to my body. Alone in my home office, I stood with my feet shoulder width apart, placed my thumbs on my lower back, bent my knees slightly, and attempted to pop my rear end up and down.
Almost immediately, I felt pain. The pain of twerking was not only caused by trying to move my lower back and hips like a stripper on uppers, but also because what I mistakenly thought was muscular began to shake and slap, colliding into other long-neglected parts of my body. In that moment, I realized I am too old to twerk.
Why did I attempt to twerk?
Simply stated, I discovered the hypocrisy of age while watching an episode of Glee. Sue Sylvester, high school principal and resident badass, outlawed twerking at the fictional high school. Sitting on my couch, I found myself agreeing with Sue rather than laughing at her sometimes violent, always cunning antics. I turned to my husband, who suffers through Glee every week because he knows that my addiction to show tunes is incurable, and said, “Good for Sue. That dance is vulgar!”
And there it was. My hypocrisy floated out of me and hovered over the television. It begged to know what happened to the young woman who used to dance through the night to Rage Against the Machine, Nine Inch Nails, and Deee-lite? Has she forgotten the countless evenings when, in the middle of a crowded dance floor, her sister would reel her in to the rhythm of Get Off by Prince? I came to one disappointing conclusion: I have replaced the freedom of youth felt Thursday through Saturday evenings on that dance floor in Mobile with the hypocrisy of age. Instead of dancing, I now lounge on my sofa, remote in hand, ready to lay down my crotchety judgment.
Why will I never twerk again?
Other than the fact that I need to spend some quality time with a heating pad due to my twerking moment, I can think of nothing more pathetic than a 38-year-old woman busting out the twerk on a dance floor. Picture it. Imagine plus-size hips vibrating in a most disturbing way, revealing to the vibrant youngsters what gravity eventually does to once taut muscles. Prayers escape the writhing youth as they cringe at the sight of their future, “Please, God, please, don’t ever let my body become that.” For extra cool points, I bite my bottom lip as I concentrate on my gyrating hips, desperately trying to mimic the young and in-shape. Suddenly, I am carried out of the club. A concerned Woo Girl next to me screams at an EMT, “I think she’s having a stroke. Maybe a seizure. Please help her!” The EMT calls my husband. Jay, after being told that I am in an ambulance, asks with great concern, “What happened?” The EMT responds, “She twerked, man, she twerked.”
Should twerking continue?
As Kevin Bacon told us so many moons ago, “Ecclesiastes assures us that there is a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to laugh and a time to weep. A time to mourn and there is a time to dance.” Well, my darling Woo Girls and Frat Boys, this is your time to dance. And I guess twerking is your dance of choice, no matter how unattractive I think it is. So twerk away, my spritely subjects! However, I just set Groove is in the Heart (oldie but goodie by Deee-lite) to repeat. Whenever you’re ready to explore the dance craves of the mid-nineties, reel me in. I’ll shake my hips as I did years ago. I just need ten minutes to warm up. You wouldn’t want your Queen to pull a hammy, would you?