Did you hear about the viral video infecting the Internet featuring five seven year-old girls in black and red bikinis and thigh-high hose dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies”? I have. You see, I’m enrolling Spicy Girl in dancing school, and my dad has an opinion on this type of dancing.
“I hope you didn’t pick a dancing school that has them do a number like that.” My father said to me. Dad likes to use terms like “number”, “rock and roll combo” and “slacks”. It’s endearing.
“No dad, she’s not doing hip hop, it’s more classic ballet. It’s basic stuff. Like I did when I was a kid. Before I started to look like a wounded hippo in pink tights.” I said, stuffing a yodel in my mouth hoping to quell the self-loathing.
“I don’t care if she’s hopping. I used to hop around all the time as a kid. It’s that gyrating that I don’t have any use for.”
“Dad, hip hop is a type of dance. They offer it at pretty much every dancing school out there.”
“What music do they dance to?”
“Um, hip hop.”
“Why is the dance the same thing as the music?”
“I don’t know dad, it just is.”
“People have run out of ideas.”
“I also saw on YouTube this father who brought his son to the zoo and held him by his feet and lowered him into the lion pit. Maybe it was bears. Or orangutans. Yeah, it was a monkey.” Wait for it … wait for it … “You aren’t taking her to the zoo or anything are you?”
“Dad, I take her to the zoo every so often, but be clear, I don’t let her use the bathroom at the zoo, you don’t have to worry that I’m lowering her into the snake pit.”
“It was monkeys,” He corrected me. “What’s that sound?”
“It’s me banging my head against the wall.”
“Hmm. I saw that woman on YouTube slam her head on the TV while dancing to that same Beyonce hip hop song wearing a gorilla mask. You aren’t doing that are you?”
“No dad, not yet.”