TKOG Who dazzles you with exotic gyrations

NTKOG #172: The kind of multicultural femme fatale whose intoxicating hips swivel with ease through the finer points of belly dance.

I am: about as seductive as a stomach flu. And that’s before we throw dancing into the mix.

I am not: able to force my body into any sort of joyful, rhythmic flailing. What are these “beats” everyone speaks so highly of?

The Scene: A dance studio in Cambridge, offering free hour-long workshops in every conceivable shade of dance, in honor of a weekend arts festival. When Anglophile suggested we pop in for the belly dancing tutorial, my heart leapt. Sure, I’ve never shown any appreciable dance ability in the past, but what woman hasn’t harbored the secret dream that just the right beat might touch off her inner sexbomb?

Plus, I’m mildly obsessed with belly dance (uh, as in: watching other people do it), because I’m one of those smarmy types who only goes to Mediterranean cafes on belly dancing night. Whatever, don’t judge me.

Because the course was free, I expected the studio to be crammed like a rush-hour T car with gyrating prima donnas. When the class didn’t work out, I reasoned, I could just hide behind some other oaf, give a few half-hearted shimmies, and call it a day. Imagine my surprise when Anglophile and I burst in, a few minutes late, to see the instructor and only three other girls. My usual strategies wouldn’t work here.

The exquisite instructor — a Harvard undergrad with glistening collarbones and more visible abdominal muscles than I have facial expressions — guided us through moves one by one, stressing the importance of isolating muscle groups. Every move seemed to end with the admonition: “Remember to tuck your abs! Make ‘em look like mine!” Um, yeah, dude. Maybe with the help of an antimatter vortex and Heidi Montag’s plastic surgeon.

As she popped her hips from side to side, I carefully followed the movements, mesmerized by the heavily beaded hip scarf that glimmered with her every movement. Over the next ten minutes, either the moves grew more complicated or my total buffoonery more debilitating. By the time she was leading the other girls in horizontal chest figure eights with spider arms (…the fuck?), I had dropped all pretenses and dedicated myself in earnest to studying her jangly, bedazzled ass.

Wait, someone remind me why dudes haven’t discovered the magic of belly dance class yet?

Belly dancing class: basically 45 minutes of staring at this. COULD BE WORSE.

After half an hour of individual moves, she put on some music and taught us about thirty seconds of a choreographed dance, comprised primarily of elbow rolls, hip gyrations, and a move called “the traveling camel.” A name which was, in my case, brutally literal.

While I can’t say that my final results were anything short of horrifying, at least when we were putting the moves together, I was engaged enough to try earnestly and stop pulling self-conscious grimaces. Heck, I was so un-self-conscious that I even glanced at myself in the full-wall mirror for a few seconds. Then immediately fixed my gaze back on the hip scarf, ’cause, dude, I may be empowered but I’m not a masochist.

The Verdict: Well drat and dragoons, guys. I’ve been meaning to do this for months and was secretly praying belly dancing would be irresistible happytimes for all — possibly a great exercise regime I could fall in love with and practice well into my walker-toting years. But alas, the only dance I will ever master is my daily tango with my own epic awkwardness.

Tagged as: apparently dance studio etiquette dictates you remove your flipflops beforehand. who knew?, at least my downstairs neighbors can be happy i won't be buying one of those "belly dance off the pounds!" DVDs soon, bellydance, dance, exercise, hip scarfs should be the next big fashion trend, in which i am an unapologetic oaf, vanity