One of the reasons why I opt to stay home and watch “Mean Girls” every weekend in lieu of developing a post-grad social life is because I can’t dance for sh*t. No, really. It’s weird. My parents have rhythm, and I love music. But whenever I try to shake what my mama gave me to my favorite songs, I end up looking like I’m having a seizure. The one time that I went to the club in undergrad, I ran to a nearby restroom stall in my 5-inch platform open toe heels (replete with silver glitter and bows) while my roommates twerked themselves out of their drunken stupors and took me home. Oh. And I cried, too.
There is one exception, though. Not trying to brag or anything, but I flourished in the “crank dat” era. I spent most of my formative years right outside of Atlanta where you HAD to crank something. You just had to. First, it was the Soulja Boy (thank goodness for that instructional video). But then cranking took on a life of its own, YOUUUUUU-ing its way into the hearts of dancers in the dirty dirty and beyond. If I could crank dat anything in the club, that’d surely get me out of bed and onto someone’s dance floor. Guess these memories will have to suffice ‘til it happens.
[Lead image via Steel Closet]
