Twerk After Work – So What Now

There are few things that say ‘Let’s take this relationship to the next level’ like a friend suggesting you attend a ‘Twerk after Work Afrobeats edition’ dance class at a North London Community Centre together. Upon being presented with the idea, I wasn’t 100% sure what the class would entail, but after briefly consulting the bambamboogie.com booking page I was certain of 2 things. 1) that it would include vigorous and uninhibited glute jiggling and 2) that my ass was probably too white and too bony to execute any of the former with a modicum of the panache required. This second certainty was not based solely on woke millennial conditioning but rooted in a 15-year history of trying to overcome my anatomic awkwardness.

German genes paired with classical ballet training meant that ‘letting rip’ on the dance floor as a teen took the shape of what I call the infamous ‘walk across’. It saw 16-year-old me walk determinately towards the centre of the dancefloor after an hour spent glued to the wall, only to change my mind as I was getting closer to the centre and to keep walking ahead to the other side of the room as if that had always been my intention.

At uni I graduated from the ‘walk across’ to the ‘penguin’. This figure had me shuffle my feet rhythmically from left to right but with my arms clenched to my sides and fingers stretched out perpendicularly to my legs. Over the following decade, I cycled through various forms of dance in an attempt to teach that penguin how to fly. Starting with let’s-all-be-equal-women-can-be-leads-too lindy hop and don’t-worry-babe-just-follow salsa, to kickass pole fitness and I’m-claiming-the-hell-out-of-this-space Flamenco.

Today, I have settled on a freestyle dance persona that I would describe as ‘scarecrow on acid’. My movements continue to be stick-esque but are executed with abandon. So at least I’m having fun, I guess.

With my bum still numb from a transatlantic work flight, I thought twerking would be just the right thing to cure my jetlag and take my dance evolution to the next level. The moment I stepped through the door, I and roughly 10 other ‘queens’ were enveloped in a cosy circle of tea mug affirmations. While performing a gentle warm-up jiggle, we all started chanting: ‘I am courageous. I choose courage’. I guess the stiffer I was, the more courageous it was of me to come here?! Mission accomplished.

After some introductory hip circles we practised the OG twerk, which involves varying degrees of flashing your butt crack at the people behind you (Note to self: When attending another class that mainly involves sticking your bum out, don’t wear shorts you’re only 70% sure aren’t see-through). Hovering in a crouched position, trying to follow the teacher’s instructions with knitted brows, I realised twerking’s main health and wellbeing benefit: You can only keep up your work week mind chatter for so long while you are also trying to make your ass relax enough for it to look like the most delicious pile of custard sliding off of warm apple crumble.

I still got all that expensing to do. For that work trip to Canada. For the nights spent at the hotel on the 10^th floor with the duck pond. And the hotel staff that went on strike, leaving the corridors littered with towel trolleys and bin bags. The silence only interrupted by heave thuds when yet another duck crashed into one of the windows. Montreal = mallard-shaped droplets sliding off glass. Who puts a duck enclosure on the 10^th floor of a skyscraper?!

Show the butthole. Hide the butthole.

At least the Air Canada staff didn’t go on strike in the end. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have even made it to this class. Would my travel health insurance have covered the additional days if I had gotten stuck in the country for reasons beyond my control?

Show the butthole. Hide the butthole. It’s out there. It’s shy. It’s out there. It’s shy.

At least I got to see some of Montreal. Streets like Europe but more spacious. French vibes and Fentanyl. People running on treadmills next to people moving like zombies. We built these cities. Can you twerk to Starship?

Show the butthole. Hide the butthole. It’s out there. It’s shy. It’s out there. It’s shy. Circle, circle, circle, circle, kick ball change, down to all fours. Jiggle left. Jiggle right.

And how come that no one ever talks about the absolute pain that is a long-haul flight. Nothing you can possibly experience on the other side of the world can make up for the incessant noise of the plane’s air circulation system, sucking your skin dry. Shrivelled peaches with neck pillows.

Show the butthole. Hide the butthole. It’s out there. It’s shy. It’s out there. It’s shy. Circle, circle, circle, circle, kick ball change, down to all fours. Jiggle left. Jiggle right. Slap the floor, turn. Tic toc round, tic toc round, puppy tail, puppy tail.

…

I’m courageous, clap, clap, clap.

I may be courageous but I still haven’t watched the video recording of this dance routine.

Clap, clap, clap.