Jazz Hands Optional

Last night, the class of nice middle-aged (and then some) jazz dancers got seriously confused when our fearless leader, Mr. Double Hip Replacement, announced that we'd be twerking after the warm-up. I'm pleased to tell you that no one knew what the eff he was talking about, except, of course, the SJG.   It helped that I had spent the entire day preparing, just in case. I watched and re-watched various hilarious spoofs of the shanda that is Miley, should the opportunity to twerk arise.  "Carol, show the girls how to twerk," Doug commanded. Always happy to be the teacher's pet, I obliged with some tentative hip thrusts, some low squats, and of course, some serious booty shaking, courtesy of the sumptuous Jewish butt that came with the original genetic packaging. My performance was brief, but effectively cringe-worthy. The room cleared out in seconds flat, and I had the dance floor to myself.