I have a calling in life.
No, I'm not joining a convent or teaching English in Malaysia, but the voices tell me my duty is just as important: To create a national dance movement.
The life-changing moment occurred this summer, when I was sharing a bottle of white wine with my best friend while we perused one of those insanely irrelevant, girly, coffee table books entitled The Bad Girl's Handbook to Having Fun. It contained vital information such as the victuals needed at a pity-party and oh so discreet code phrases to warn your girlfriends of impending catastrophes in public. Then we nearly passed over a section that has changed my life: The bad girls' dance.
Hmmm, we were intrigued. It was a simple 48-count dance broken up into eight-count sections, delineated by cartoonish drawings and rhyming instructions, akin to: Step back, then grab your rack or don't you fear, move that rear. We put on some monotonous beat-laden music, Britney Spears' Boys to be exact, and after a few inept tries, we had the bad girls' dance down.
We air-kissed to the walls. We shimmied to the floor. We, admittedly, spent a good 30 minutes in her basement on the dance.
But when you walk into a club nowadays there is no such unity of dance expression. Instead your only options are to engage in some tacky dance with a random stranger, press yourself into a wallflower or wave glowing sticks in some ninja pattern. I long for those middle school dances where the "Electric Slide" blared over speakers, and everyone rushed to the center of the floor to shuffle and rotate to the very original lyrics of, "
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