Back in high school, we had the option of completing our second required year of PE at the local Junior College. We had to complete six units or something like that. I took a brutal swimming class and a really fun jazz dance class with my sister one summer. We would ride the county bus from our home in the sticks into the college campus. There was a couple of developmentally delayed adults who also took the bus, and they would make out the whole way, a good 30 minutes or more. I tried not to gawk.

The swimming. God. Whose idea was that? It was all exertion, all the time. Add to that the lack of Jazz Hands, and having to wear a swimsuit in front of older, cute boys...let's just agree that swimming sprints and relays wasn't my bag.

Oh, but I loved the jazz dance class. I loved the floor exercises, and learning the combos in front of the big mirrors. When it came time for our running/leaping combinations, my sister and I would always push our way to the front of the group. I seem to remember people fawning over our extension and posture. Maybe that was a kind way of suggesting that we needed to get the stick out of our backsides. I was sure I was an awesome dancer, though.

At our final class, the guys from the weightlifting class came over to watch us put all our combinations together into a dance. Finding myself in the second row was bad enough. When I put on my best sparkle, I must have edged forward in my spacing, because I received a flying backward kick to the forehead from the girl in front of me, leaving me dizzy. Biatch was just jealous of my moves.

Flash forward to the end of summer - I had three credits left to earn. I enrolled in another dance class, this time a modern dance class. I knew nothing about modern dance, but I figured that jazz dance had been a great ole time, so I was bound to be a natural at modern dance.

No. Nuh-uh. I was NOT a natural.

We learned the names for certain types of movements, and did lots of spastic motions, followed by undulating motions, followed by explosive movements - which I rocked, thankyuhverramuch - followed by dragging and snapping and all these other things. While I understood the theory, actually DOING the dance was a riot. I laughed and laughed at the seriousness which permeated the class.

Hello! I'm standing here on one foot like a flamingo, flailing my arms around. That is funny.

The class dragged on and on. The finals arrived, a full week before I realized they were upon us. Our final project was to choreograph a dance using the full catalog of named moves, in harmony with our chosen piece of music.

All the other dancers had spent weeks, and had chosen amazing, eclectic, custom mixed music. I performed my piece to Def Leppard's Rocket. And since I hadn't really practiced, or even thought of what moves I was going to do, I just got out in the middle of the studio and started to run and leap and twirl around. I threw in a few sudden stops and dramatic swoons to the floor, before crawling around and then rolling over on my back and wiggling my hands and feet in the air limply.

It was so bad. It was as bad as the 6th grade talent show where I dressed up like a cat in a black leotard and tights and "danced" to Stray Cat Strut without a single pre-planned move.

When the final notes faded, the rest of the class sat stunned. I glanced around, panting, and then walked deliberately to the classroom door, opened it, and headed out of the building for the parking lot. I wish I could say I had sunk down into the "Superstar!" pose, or had pumped my fist and yelled "Yeah!" or something. Instead, I tossed my gym bag into the passenger seat, and drove home, giggles bubbling up at the thought of my outlandish, spontaneous routine.