Last night after work, a few friends and I drove up to the Joy of Motion dance studio in our yuppie yoga pants and took a crump class.
FYI, this is crump:
Now imagine me, in my yuppie yoga pants, learning how to crump in a room full of actual hip-hop dancers in their cool sneakers and baggy clothes with holes cut in them. One poor guy with more rhythm in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body had the misfortune to be standing directly behind me throughout the whole class. I kept feeling the need to apologize to him.
My favorite part of the class was when the instructor tried to teach us “attitude.” He had us bend our knees into a kind of wide squat, bend over forward and bounce around and let our arms hang down. Then he said, “Ok, now I want you to get a mental image in your head that you’re gonna keep with you as you do the rest of this choreography. What does being in this position make you think of?”
I’m pretty sure he meant for us to say something cool, like playing basketball against a rival street gang in Compton. But my friend didn’t understand the exercise, so she enthusiastically shouted, “A monkey!”
“Uh, ok, a monkey,” he said, just going with the flow because he’s a nice guy and didn’t want to make her feel like an ass. “I guess you can think of being a monkey while you do this dance, but you’re not a happy monkey. You’re a street monkey with attitude.”
Then he proceeded to teach us arm swings, chest pumps, and stomps, the three cornerstones of crumping. While we all completely failed to execute the choreography, we still came out of the class feeling a little bad-ass, and we promised ourselves we would not be wearing yoga pants and GAP tank tops to next week’s class.
Here’s where the night gets weird: we go straight from crump class to my friend’s stepmother’s house, where she is hosting a bunch of choristers from Oxford University in England. The choristers, who sing mostly 16th century church choir songs, were on their American tour and were spending the night in D.C. before their next performance.
Imagine the cultural adjustment from a crump class to a British chorister barbeque. Luckily, in return for us showing them a few vigorous chest pumps and arm swings, they agreed to stage a performance for us in the living room, and I caught one of the songs on my iPhone (sorry it’s upside down, I’m technologically challenged, but the sound quality is decent):
I also took the opportunity to ask them why they still have a queen. I think it’s a valid question, but they all seemed to be pretty pleased with their queen, and they immediately started gossiping about the royal family like Americans gossip about celebrities. What? No– Charles is TOTALLY desperate to be king, I don’t care what your mom says…
As far as Wednesday nights go, I’d say that this one was weird to very weird. But it sure beat watching Millionaire Matchmaker on my couch.