Hip-Hop Is Not Dead

It is my dream to be cool and black, with a big deep voice like Kingsley Shacklebolt.

On the path to pursuing this dream, I struck the first snag almost immediately when I looked in the mirror and realised:

I'm not black.

Genetics are cruel.

Genetics means that I have horrendous eyesight. It means that I cannot park straight in an empty bay full of empty angled parking slots in an empty carpark outside an empty shopping centre. It means that I cannot run continously for a minute without collapsing on the ground and wheezing like Darth Vader.

On the upside, genetics also means that I have relatively little arm hair.

Woot!

Anyway, back to what I was going to say...ah, yes, coolness and blackness. They go hand-in-hand, like peas and carrots.

Even though I realised that this weedy little yellow caterpillar would never transform into a big, cool, homey black butterfly, I decided that in lieu of wearing bling, smokin' crack and driving around in a pimped-up ride, I would take up hip-hop classes.

(I am acutely aware that not all black males do these things. Unfortunately the only black person I know is my nasal law lecturer and he's actually from Africa and doesn't rap. Therefore, I must draw inferences from cool black people like 50 Cent and Jay-Z.)

So..today was a not-very-good day, as my mother had forgotten to leave me her car keys, and I didn't realise this until before I was about to leave for my English class. Cue massive panic- there was no point trying to get there by public transport because the lesson was only 1.5 hours anyway...so I decided I'd just take the bus later to go to the gym for the hip-hop class. (Now I'll never know the difference between finite and infinite verbs...'tis a cruel world.)

So at 4:30, dressed in my ultra-hip 3/4 length Target pants, my equally ultra-hip Volleys (also from Target) and a Converse sport vest, I toddled over to the Aerobics Gym.

And discovered that 75% of my class was also Asian.

Thus, I have concluded that it is an inherent and deeply-hidden secret wish of all Asian girls to be cool and black. (Right, Kris? Mmm?)

My dance instructor was not, unfortunately, cool and black. She was skinny, ultra-fit and practically bounced up on the podium with the kind of energy I normally associate with two years olds and Red Bull. Everything was "you've got it, yeah?" or "we'll do it in slow-mo, yeah?" with an upbeat attitude rivalling the good boys and girls of Hi-5.

So we got started on some warm-ups which involved stretching (and I have seen enough of tight-Lycra-clad backside to last me a lifetime) then we practiced some dance moves.

It was actually really fun, although the step-and-spin stuff was beyond most of us on a carpeted floor with runners, and there was an awful lot of wobbling and frantic grabbing of air when we had to stand on one foot. There was also a giant mirror at the front, which only reinforced my decision to never buy 3/4 length sports pants from Target again.

Even though I would never actually use those moves anywhere but in the safety of the sports hall, it was the most amusing workout I've had in a long time. Not that dying over the treadmill isn't fun *snort*

Now for the best part of working out- undoing absolutely everything with a large bowl of Milo ice-cream.

Peace out, y'all!

P.S- Thanks to Rosy, Kris, Loui and Claire for the comments on the last post- really made my day :) And Rosy dearest, I counted you and Kris as number one and two, so technically it's still four :D