Malingering’s World

Every once in a while, I try to force myself to take dance class so that I don’t turn into a feeble old woman who breaks a hip trying to change the cat litter because I only move around twice a week. Today I went to dance class in Santa Monica, which is usually safe because it is far enough away from Hollywood that people aren’t handing out headshots in between turns.

I must have missed the announcement that today was Jazz Dance Barbie day, as when I walked into the class I realized the cummulative caloric intake for the group that day was about 25 and the room appeared to have suffered from a peroxide hurricane prior to my arrival. I looked around the room for one, just one familiar face when I realized that all of their faces looked exactly the same, but there was one distinguishing feature, each one had a different tattoo. I decided to name them to make myself feel better: Starfoot Barbie, Infinitywrist Barbie, HorriblyBotchedInkDisaster Barbie, but my attempts were futile. There simply was no place for a non-tattooed almost-30 brunette with a BMI of >15. I tried to do my best, I really did, and I can cite my one success as resisting the urge to stick my fingers down my throat and induce vomiting so I could feel like I belong. My amusement came at the end of the class, when everyone walked to the corner, put on their Ugg boots, tightened the screws on their navel rings, and snapped on their Bluetooths (Blueteeth?) before walking outside. I couldn’t help but giggle.

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