50 bucks says I will tap dance my way into your heart

March 27, 2006 - 10:57 a.m.

I went to my first tap-dance class of the semester. I was only able to go to one class before the last semester ended and I’ve been pissy impatient for classes to start up again because when I decide I want to do something, I want to do it NOW. It was exhilarating and I loved it. I left soaked in sweat, having worked muscles I’ve never felt in my life. Like my buttocks, and hips, who knew?

The class has about 15 students, which is way too overcrowded if you ask me, cuz I like for people to stay waayyy out of my space. The space is loft-like with high, beamed ceilings and a wall of mirrors, and a really loud stereo system that just reverberates and hits ya from every direction. Noise + Vibrations = thumbs up for me. My teacher is a chipper little hipster girl who plays indie rock that I can’t remember the name of.

Before class I was eyeballing my fellow students, seeing if maybe I might make a nerdy friend (and if past experience is any indication of the future, then the chances of that happening are ZERO). I was kind of hanging around, seeing if maybe I could pipe into a conversation somewhere, and it seemed that everyone in there already knew each other, so they must have taken classes together before.

So I was hanging around, lurking maybe, and would you believe that those girls snubbed me? They were, get this: haughty. They cliqued up in the corner and played that high school game, where you deliberately exclude people, but I am an adult so I am immune to this game. You got no game if you ain’t got no player.

But regardless if I am affected by the poisonous smirks of teenage girls, they need to understand something, because to me it was clear as day.

Hello? Stephanie? Ashley? (real names)

You’re in a tap-dancing class.

You’re wearing shoes that make clicking sounds when you step, and you’re doing it on purpose.

You’re doing the heel-toe, alternating left-right, clicky-clicky, and you’re doing it deliberately.

You look like a bunch of faggots.

Haughty? No, my dears, you are making complete fools of yourselves just by being here, because you are doing the uncoolest thing on the planet, and on the international scale of coolness, you are easily one or two notches below Julie Andrews and Lawrence Welk. You bunch of pansy bitches.

Take my word for it, I just spent two hours staring at all of us in the mirrors, us trying to synchronize our shuffles, pulling out jazz hands and a clap for the finale, and every one of us may as well be wearing clown suits because this is the biggest tool shed I’ve seen in a long time.

Gay prancing faggots, every one of us. Queering it up, knees high in the air, doing the side slide, dragging our toes across the floor. We should each be assigned our own personal bully, so we can got socked in the eye when we leave class each week Until mom has to pick us up and pull right up to the door, and we run out from the safety of the dance school and duck down in the back seat. Like the fairies that we are.

And there are three males in the class, legitimate pole-smoking gays with vaginas larger and more pronounced than any girl in the class. Us girls were practically twatless next to these flaming walking vaginas.

One of the legitimate pole-smoking gays was explaining to his friend his future plans, projecting his voice like he was on a stage, for the whole room to hear.

“I plan on moving to New York and getting a part in a theater production, maybe a Broadway musical. Which will be, like totally easy, because I’ll be the only one who’s six foot four and VERY VERY STRAIGHT.”

He spoke shrilly, with a lisp, his head tilted to the side and arm up in the air, fingers splayed towards the heavens like he was reaching for the scrotum of god hisself.

Closeted queens are so annoying.

All gaiety aside, I take my tap-dancing very seriously and am dedicated to developing good form and style and doing the shit up proper. I keep my hips forward and my back straight. In every day life I really go overboard with my posture because I’m convinced that I can feel a hunchback growing in back there. Whenever I think about it I sit up perfectly straight, chest jutting forward, hoping to lasso the hunch back in to my back. It ends up looking really exaggerated, with my head held high and shoulders back like Miss Priss. It’s one of several reasons why people tend to not like me.

So I’m dancing with perfect posture, just my feet tapping. Because in my mind, I’m thinking I should master the foot work first and develop a dancing style up top later on. I’m dancing and staring at my feet in the mirror, because duh, if you look DOWN at your feet you’ll fall on your face. We’re allowed to do whatever we want with our arms, but to keep myself balanced I found I was naturally placing my hands on my hips.

Hands on my hips, back straight as a board, ponytail bouncing. Staring forward, my legs moving independently from the rest of my body.

Pointed toes…

Knees high…

RED HAIR…

Do you see where this is going?

People, don’t you see?

I am The Lord of the Dance.

I’m that faerie princess of a man who bares his chest through the loosely tied criss-cross enclosure of his peasant blouse.

BLOUSE.

A puffy shirt if there ever was one.

I dance the jig. RIVERDANCER. Dancing in the river, trudging through the muck, tripping over carp, all in the name of preaching the gospel of Celt, praising his name with intricately patterned embroidered corsets.

I looked around the class and no one else was dancing with their hands on their hips. Just me, the jigger.

It seems my Irish genes are rearing their ugly, alcohol soaked heads, causing my hands to naturally migrate to my hips, further causing me to be the gayest tap dancer there ever was. So much for my dream of gaining some rhythm and growing a black bootie.

On the upside, I’m pretty good at dancing the jig.

And I look pretty cute doing it.

I keep telling myself this:

”I AM THE CUTEST FAGGOT IN MY TAP DANCE CLASS.”

Amen, Michael Flatley.

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