Not kicking butt, but still taking names

Fact: In high school I always wanted to be on the dance team. And for disclosing that, I will award myself 100 blogger points. It's true, I have always loved to dance, but a combination of an addiction to self loathing and an aversion to gold, quarter-sized sequins somehow kept me away from those tryouts. Instead I nurtured my love of music and moves at our church youth dances, a time which my husband confesses he would love to enlist the Back To The Future Delorean to take him to see because he wants to ask me to dance so he can replace my memories of standing on the sidelines during slow dances with happier recollections of lovestruck chemistry wants to stand on the sidelines, point, and declare that he would never, ever date a chick that ridiculous. But as an adult, unless you are single, a little trampy and like to bar hop, there's not much in the way of a dancing outlet for me anymore.

That is, until my gym introduced a "Hip Hop" group exercise class a few years ago. I went once, and I was HOOKED. Every Tuesday at 7pm I had a date with Marty the instructor. Marty was a middle-aged balding white guy with moves that would make Justin Timberlake beg him to hop on his bus and join his tour. I LOVED THIS CLASS!!! My friend and I even had nicknames for all the regulars:
Tank - hot girl, moves deserving of a front row spot, always wore a tank top
Hoops - high schooler, used to ask the teacher to clarify certain moves after class while twirling her hair, wore humongous hoop earrings
Backstreet – as in “Backstreet Boys”
Red - middle-aged PE teacher with Red hair, better moves than most in the class
Noodle Boy - used to drink beforehand to get pumped up, regularly came in with a girl way out of his league, dance moves similar to what you might see if a 5-year-old was slurping up his spaghetti
Ahab the Arab – When this guy came to class I kept waiting for him to confess, "Smile!! Because YOU'RE on Candid Camera!!" He side-stepped like a drunk Teletubby and ran into everyone within twenty feet. There would be four or five of us looking at him with our hands in the air as if to say, "What is your deal, man?" and he never even noticed.
Bubble Gum – wore bright pink shirt every time, couldn’t take her eyes off herself in the mirror
Solid Gold – think “ballet meets Janet Jackson”, dated the instructor.

These nicknames were known only to me and two of my friends until “Noodle Boy” struck up a conversation with us after class one time. In a weak moment I confessed all the nicknames to him, and he didn't appear particularly flattered. But after that he would slide past me during class and yell, “Noodle Boy’s on FIRE tonight!!” with flair.

I went to this class religiously for about a year and a half. Then my kids got a little older, nights got more complicated, and dates with Tuesday fell by the wayside. It’s been two years. Tonight, I decided to go back.

If I simply admit that it wasn't pretty can I just stop there? Fine, I'll continue. But I get 50 more blogger points. Let me just say that my gym crush Marty is no longer the instructor. The only regular left is "Red", and if I had a nickname for myself it would be White Chick In The Back Who Should Have Stayed Home And Made Cookies. The last 15 minutes of class he split us up into four groups numbered 1-4. We would proceed to go into the middle of the floor, with our team, and perform for everyone else who would stand around the perimeter and cheer. We had to do this three times. By the end, I had named the teams:
Team #1: "We Used To Be On The Dance Team"
Team #3: "We've Been Coming To This Class For A While Now"
Team #4: "That's Right Y'all, Let Me Show You A Little Somethin' Somethin'"
I was on Team #2. I'm torn between "White Chicks Can't Bump" and "Hey There, Excuse Me? Could You Do That Double Up Back Hand Swipe Kick Back Jump To The Side Thing Just ONE More Time? I Think I Almost Got It".