My Hips Don't Lie

I sit in the lobby of my dance studio, an old copy of People on my lap.  Footsteps clomp up the stairs.  I overhear the following conversation, between my dance teacher, Doug Rivera (DR) and a new student (NS) who hasn't taken much jazz before.  Poor gal.  She's struggling. 

NS:  "It's hard to follow the little blonde in the front.  I do better when I follow the girl that stands in the middle."

DR:  "Which girl?"

NS:  "The short one, with the hips."

DR: "Oh, you mean Carol?"

NS:  "That's the one."

DR enters the lobby, turns beet red when he sees me.  From the NS, not even a smile.  She doesn't recognize me sitting down.  Besides, it's my hips she's interested in, and she can't follow them when they're glued to vinyl.  Class begins.  I'm feeling snarky.  It's not often you hear folks talk about your butt when you're nearby.  What to do with this commentary?  In a huff, I decide that on this day, I shall not move my damn hips.  Not one little bit.  Let the new gal follow someone else's big booty.  Mine is staying put!  Of course, my resolution only lasts so long.  Cue the music.  My hips move involuntarily.  As usual, they have a mind of their own.  There's no holding them back.  Like Shakira's, my hips don't lie.  They need to shine.  And just like that, it hits me, a bumper sticker moment: 

It's better to have hips that others follow, than get left behind.