Ajji and The Meaning of Life

It was time to go and have my last words with her. She was dying. Decided SHE finally had enough of this asinine world, and not vice versa. Her room was in the middle of the house which was in the middle of a jungle of flora and fauna she called her garden. She was always working on her garden, with her dogs and cats sniffing or peeing around and she never did finish it. She was the first to admit that she loved plants and animals, and an occasional fox, but really did not know how to train either.

When I went in to see her she was holding forth in the middle of her “Family Court” I remember when she would always use her head of snowy white hair to browbeat any dissenters into submission and carry out her orders. Her quotation of the day:“Kaii hoth nahi”( Nothing’s gonna happen) actually meant “Do what I tell you and no argument!” and her other dinner table epithet : “Khaa re/ga , chaan ahay” ( Eat up it’s good) meant, “Shaddup and eat quietly.”

The doctor did not have to tell us she was dying, we knew anyway. Everyone she knew came and met her, which is what she wanted at the end. She had stopped wearing her glasses, her dentures having been discarded years ago being unwieldy and uncomfortable.”Stupid things” she said.

Her friends and family called her “Akka”, but over the years with the increase of her tribe it became “Ajji”. People would always call to talk about their plants and animals who were acting crazy, or not growing, or drinking too much, or running away and ask:” What can I do?” They never called anyone else. She’d listen and then zap them with a 94-page lecture.

Which brings me to the question everyone who does not have a garden asks: “Just what the heck is the meaning of Life anyway?”

For millions of years man has been trying to find the meaning of life and this made him very lazy. Deepak Chopra’s wife yells at him: “Honey, don’t forget to take out the trash” or “Can you take me to the hospital I think I’m having a baby.” And he says: “Sorry I can’t right now darling, I’m trying to explain the meaning of Life.”

Over the ages mankind has come up with all sorts of explanations to the meaning of Life. Actually right up to when Wikipedia came into being, anything mankind came up with for anything was stupid. In fact I’ll bet that children would be able to finish high school in about a week if we stopped making them memorise all the rubbish about history, the sun and the planets and about the gods and goddesses and so on and so forth.

One definition that encompasses every living thing on this planet, which noted scientist and proctologist Albert Weisenheimer using sophisticated analytical tools has put forth is : Life is anything that dies when hit with a large hammer.

By this definition the lizard, the earthworm, the rose, the chicken, the potato and some politicians are forms of Life. But how does one equate a chicken which clearly has some value with a politician. And where does Life come from?

Charles Dickens extolled the Theory of Evolution. There was this slimy character called Uriah Heep … oops sorry that was a story about an orphan kid called Oliver Twist. The other story came from Charles Darwin who said that at one time the earth consisted primarily of slime and ooze, sort of like stuff that makes up our parliamentary system. Then some of the slime came into contact with some of the ooze. One said: “Let’s form Life” and the other said: “Sounds good to me. I’ll be the brain and you can be the other end” and then they crawled out on land and mated, and the ones that did not get eaten survived in what was labelled by Herb Spencer as “Survival of the Fittest.” and they went forth and polluted the earth.

Some religious people dispute the Theory of Evolution saying God made everything, and whole wars have supported the God theory so they went and built the Hadron Collider in a neutral country like Switzerland to try to find the God particle or any other particles,tools or black holes He left behind after His creation.

Life today consists of a) Plants b) Animals

Plants are sub-divided into Fruits, Vegetable and Vegans.

Animals are categorized differently:
1.Animals that can hurt you: tigers, elephants, snakes, Al- Queda, Maoists, drunk drivers, Raj Thackery.
2.Animals you can eat: chicken, sheep, fish, some species of snake.
3.Animals you can ride, and sometimes eat: horse, camel, bulls.
4.Animals that are loyal to humans: Dogs
5.Animals that humans are loyal to: Cats

Insects do not fall into any category; these are species which are there solely for our amusement by spraying them with insecticide: cockroaches, mosquitoes. Some environmentalists would not agree saying that birds live by feeding on insects. So who needs birds anyway?

So I go in to Ajji’s room as her life ebbs away, and I just know it’s my last words. I lie next to her and hold her, hoping she can’t hear the tears beginning to choke and say:”I love you Amma”, and she says: ”I love you too. I’ll talk to you after this is over. Life is nothing just a garden.” I walk out; I can hardly see the door.
Everyone thinks we had a more meaningful talk. But I know I didn’t need to. I’m glad I didn’t then. She and I have been speaking ever since. A trillion things and they don’t need words any more. She defined her departure on her terms. She defined HER Life, and touched everyone else’s.

Reunion Blues - Part II

In Retrospect.
I’m so hung-over; I still haven’t been able to get a firm handle on how I felt about the reunion. I suppose I’m just going to have to be content with saying it was a mixed bag. High school was such a difficult time for me. It was the most trying period in my life. All the while on the outside, appearing to be a normal teenager. I had my share of hormonal changes too. Luckily there is no photographic evidence of my indiscretions.

Like Aamir Khan, but Fatter and Uglier
I think the toughest part of going to this reunion was the realization that some people had not moved on since high school. There were people there drinking shamefully; I was so shocked, I joined them.

It’s clear that many of them are still “partyin’ hard.” Get a grip, people. You’re 55 plus years old. One of the biggest party animals in our class suggested we climb to the top of the hill at midnight. My mouth dropped open when he said that, I almost said, “Dude. We’re old now. And you need to lay off the booze because you’ve got some serious junk in the trunk. Also I think you killed one too many brain cells and may only have one left. You might need that one.”

I don't know about you, but when I see misguided individuals spending large sums of money on booze (money that could be used to feed the hungry) and on self-abuse, my reaction, as a humanitarian, is: How can I cash in on this?

This next part is for SHY women only…

So I have an idea. It's a weight-loss concept. It's called "The Reunion Weight Loss Plan.'' I got this idea from my wife, who recently had her college reunion, ate basically nothing and swam and exercised for the entire month preceding it.

When I got to the reunion, it was clear that the SHY ladies also had worked very hard to get back to the size they were in high school. However some of the men had expanded to the actual size of the Montfort 1st field.

So Reunion Weight Loss Plan is not for guys. It’s meant to be effective for SHY women. The way it works is, you'd pay a fee, in return for which I will organize a reunion of your school EVERY WEEKEND. In addition to starving yourself, you'd enjoy lots of other perks:

1. You would get really, really good at doing The Limbo.

2. Your children would become self- sufficient and beg for food on the streets.

3. Your spouse would file for divorce.

The list is exhaustive!

For the record, I enjoyed my reunion, especially hearing people reminisce about the fun times they had in school. At one point, I was talking with one of classmates, who said: 'You see that big guy over there? I sat next to him at math class and every time we had an exam he would copy from my paper. "

''You're joking,'' I said. ''No,'' he said. ''At least you're not bitter,'' I said. Before he could make further comment I marched off to the bar, which is where men tend to gather at reunions.

But getting back to my point: I think the SHY Reunion Weight Loss Plan will be a huge hit. What I need now is start-up capital. So if you're a rich person, send me a cheque, OK? Do it soon!

……… Hands up you pervy men who read that para thinking it was something kinky.

The Sad Tale of Frustrated Testosterone
And then there were the bitter, single guys (there may have been some single women as well although I never found out) . One in particular whose name I remembered back in school was particularly bald, ugly and bitter now. Time hasn’t been kind to him. I walked into the hall and he was standing there and sees me and says in his most snotty tone “Your hair used to be (emphasize extreme distaste here) BROWN. Did you, like, dye it?” I debated whether it was worth choking the life out of him right there, but decided I might mess up my shoes. So I hit his angry bitterness where it hurts: “It got darker with my wife’s pregnancy.” And then I turned around and walked out. In broad daylight, my hair is still very dark, but under the dim lights there, I imagine it appeared quite a bit darker. I’ve never dyed my hair in my life. And I don’t have the time or energy to engage with someone who still acts like a bitchy teenager. Hard livin’ and too much time in the sun had not been kind to many people there.

A Lifetime Ago & Worlds Apart
I had thought that the reunion would be a great time to reconnect with people I had lost track of. What I realized once I got there though, was that it was really fun seeing some of the people I had been close to, but honestly, 41 years have passed. I’ve stayed in touch with the people that I really want to stay in touch with. And while it was great seeing some of them, it’s not like I’m going to pick up the phone and we’re going to pick up where we left off. There were a handful of ladies from SHY too that I really enjoyed seeing and catching up with, but the reality is that this week, we all go back to our lives as they are now. The past is gone. We knew each other a lifetime ago. And some of us knew each other really well and still know each other on that level that is so hard to achieve in adult friendships. But we can’t go back. We can only go forward. I had a hard time seeing the value in opening myself up again to stuff that’s long been buried. And I’m not the same person I was. Not even close. I find that with people who knew you so long ago, that when you re-connect, they often have a hard time seeing the person you’ve become. I’m a thinking kind of person. I expect that many people don’t even bother to think about these things nor observe. And I admit that even though 41 years have passed, I still strongly dislike some people I disliked back then…. And I’m not even going to bring up “Paunchy”. I thought I was guilty of just carrying around baggage until Addie leaned over and said “Was that guy a huge tool in school too?” Lol. Maybe some people don’t change. I just thought maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough.

Knock Three Times……

So as I sit here I am still trying to unwind, process and decompress. It’s only been a week since I got back from the reunion. As I’m looking up all the photographs that have been uploaded I think to myself “This place affected you immensely.” True, true, luv. So true……

Ultra-Precise Quantum-Logic Clock Puts Old Atomic Clock to Shame

Scientists have built a clock which is 100,000 times more precise than the existing international standard.

The quantum-logic clock, which detects the energy state of a single aluminum ion, keeps time to within a second every 3.7 billion years.

SAID CLOCK ALSO COMES WITH A WARRANTY OF 1 YEAR !!!!

Reunion Blues - Part I

I thought a school reunion could be fun – if I actually recognised anyone after 41 years…

When the invite to the reunion arrived, my first reaction was panic. “Am I really that old? Am I sixty already?” A quick calculation followed. “No, only fifty-seven. Phew! Sixty is miles away.” I slipped back into denial.

That I didn’t trash the e-invite was down to one line: “Those of you who are blissfully happy with your lives can buy the rest of us a drink”.

“Still”, I thought, flinging it in the e-folder I tuck everything I don’t want to deal with, “Why trek back down to Yercaud? I’m a busy man. Who’d turn up, anyway? What would we have to say to each other after 41 years?” Worst of all, would I remember anybody?

The invite would have stayed there and the date slipped by, had it not been for another e- invite. A few former schoolmates living abroad were meeting up here in my hometown for a holiday. Would I join them? This was easier to commit to. And it was a litmus test.

I recognised one out of five and that was only because I was expecting to see him and he hadn’t changed much. The others I had to look at for a whole minute before familiar features began to emerge from now unfamiliar faces. Hair made a huge difference. One guy had gone tres bald, leaving the rest of us in awe. But as the evening advanced, it became clear that he, like us, was the same person he’d always been.

The 41-year gap evaporated. We laughed at memories that might otherwise have been lost forever. We had, we realised, shared so much (far beyond 24-hours-a-day, 7-days-a-week for 7 years).

We had grown up together. How had we gone on to never see each other again? And not even give it a thought. Going home that night, I knew I would be going to the reunion.

A few of us met in a pub beforehand. The roars as we recognised each other had the regulars tut-tutting about not being able to hear the match. We didn’t care. Some bright spark had brought along copies of our last group photo. I looked at it and cringed. Was long hair really a fashion back then? God, how innocent I looked. How boring.

As more and more people arrived I realised how little I’d remembered. I kept cross referencing the men and women in front of me with the boys and girls in the photographs and asking “What’s your name again?”

Those I recalled easiest had been the funny ones. Some were “the image of themselves”, others had changed beyond recognition.

Roughly 23 out of 29 in my own class turned up, three of whom had returned from abroad for the event. The thing that struck me was how down-to-earth every one was. But then that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Ours was not a pretentious school – but it was good. It was run by a congregation of teaching brothers the Brothers of St. Gabriel, only 3 of which were present in school from back when we were their wards.

It had not produced blowy people who felt superior because of the school they attended. And yet there was a strong camaraderie between us.

As the days went by we caught up on each other’s lives. Many had had difficult times. Some had stayed single soon after leaving school. Others struggled with family problems. More had to deal with sickness and ill-health.

The majority had married and were busy raising families. Some had died. Something I believe in greatly was reinforced – people have such incredible strength.

A word I hadn’t used since school came rushing back to describe my former classmates – “sound”. That included those I’d never hung out with and might even have been a little afraid of. That night I realised that these had not been people to fear but to admire – unafraid as they were to let their personalities shine through in their haircuts and adaptation of uniform.

Which brings me to what people thought of me. In a word, reticent.

It was probably true. I had had one or two good friends. We had commonalties like being in the school band. And while we never stopped talking to each other, obviously we didn’t mix enough. One close friend had passed away and wasn’t at the reunion and I made up for all that non-mingling.

The last stragglers left a couple of days later. We hugged and swapped contact details. Someone joked that we should meet again in ten years when we’re heading for seventy. We were too shocked to laugh.

That was Sunday. A week later, I am back home sitting here writing my blogspot. I nearly cried when a gang of my newest buddies land and invite me out to dinner. It is a special moment. And to think that I had almost missed out on it completely.

Schoolboy Sportsmanship

On the morning side of the mountain....... come January 2010, my Alma Mater, is getting ready, possibly for the hugest reunion of baby boomers ever organized. And....on the twilight side of the hill....... not to be left out, within mirror-flashing distance (remember Rekha), the alumni ladies of similar bent (Sacred Heart Convent) are gung–hoing alongside.

And look at the programme line-up; it’s a stroll down memory lane as everyone becomes a tourist of his own youth. There’s even a cricket match in the offing where Alain Jason will seek once again to recapture his youth to see if he can still stand tall behind the wicket and remain hidden.

I first got involved in organized sports when I joined school at a tender age, when because of boarding school law I had to be a member of one of three houses. We played cricket, hockey and football and assorted blood-thirsty activities on those playing fields. Some, where one had to hit, catch, throw, or kick balls of different sizes. Most of us juniors could do none of those things.

Oh, there were the occasional exceptions like the fast-developing Iraqis with huge amounts of adolescent hormones, and thick moustaches sprouting from their bodies, who could throw a ball upwards of Mach 3 speeds , but with no idea whatsoever where it would go. When playing cricket these kind of guys always got to bowl, which presented a real problem for us kids. The wicket-keeper got to wear large gloves and protective ankle and knee pads, and the umpire got to hide behind the opposite wicket. But all we batters had was a cracked piece of wood that sometimes slipped out of our sweaty palms.

I hated to bat. I used to pray that it would start raining, or that there would be an earthquake to stop the game before my turn came. I became very close to God. But most often He would let me down and I would have to bat. The team captain would be yelling idiot advice in the background like, “Cover your wicket.”It was easy for him to say: he was out of harm’s way.

I on the other hand made no effort to cover the wicket. My only occupation was avoiding death. I would stand there holding my breath and when the prematurely large Iraqi let go of the ball, I would swing out blindly with the bat in the hopes of hitting the ball so that it would not smash into my body.

Usually I was clean bowled, which was good, because I could then go back to the safety of the pavilion, and encourage the team captain to send out another terrified kid to cover the wicket.

I much preferred fielding, especially in the 3^rd man position. If the batter got a hit and the ball got past the wicket keeper, all of the three slips and the gully, you could pretend to run like a maniac, so that by the time the ball landed you could be several feet away and safe.

Thus I learned about the adage of “Sportsmanship” which says: Never participate in anything that can do you bodily harm. Football and hockey were other great examples where players are urged to run into each other at high speeds and take the ball away from their opponent by kicking them or hitting them on their shins with a stick.

So instead I indulged in minor vandalism such as raiding the garden and sticking chewing gum on the head of the kid lining up in front of me at the refectory. But when I got to high school, I discovered that you had to be good at some sport in order to be called on stage during the annual awards and get a silver cup or medal with your name engraved on it.

Everyone in school attached a lot of importance to those silver cups and medals. You could be an imbecile of astonishing magnitude, but if you had a silver cup or a medal, you were bound to succeed in life.

Oh, the school administration made it sound as if academic achievements were important too. They’d have Annual Days, where they’d call the studious kids up on stage and present them with more books on philosophy and national history. But the kid who walked up with the logarithm tables dangling from his belt to receive his math achievement award did not impress the rest. No, to make in my school you had to get a silver cup or a medal, which meant you had to go out for a sport.

So I went in for the long jump, because all it took was having to run about 30 feet and land in a bed of soft sand.

I spent a happy 6 months, leaping into soft sand and dreaming of my silver cup. Then one day there was the school sports and I entered my name. That proved to be my downfall, because it turns out that they measure how far you jump and only the three longest jumpers get points. I was not one of the three. I was not one of the ten. In fact they could have pulled lame patients out of a hospital, and they would have probably jumped farther than I did.

So that was the end of my involvement with sports. Fortunately, there were other avenues to being popular in school, which involved jumping over the wall to go to the nearest dhaba to eat dosas, getting caught, and caned at morning assembly in full view of hundreds of admiring boys. Thus achieving social acceptance.

After high school, I discovered that silver cups and medals become less important than academics. Think about it, if you attend a corporate cocktail dinner junket and subtly try to flash your silver cup, people will think you’re a moron; whereas if you subtly try to flash your Cornell credentials, people will still think you’re a moron, but an educated one.

I often wonder what I would do if I had a silver cup. Maybe use it for drinking beer.

'tis the season to be parking lalalalala lalalala

It's “THE CHRISTMAS SEASON” once again. And we all know what that means right?? .......Partaaaaaaayyyy !!

It also means that, like an outbreak of measles, the gift-giving season is upon us once again.

I have received oodles of colourful pamphlets from my credit-card company and flyers in the daily mail urging me to buy retarded objects and gift them to people.

The most recent catalogue features ginormous cans of cashew nut burfi dripping with syrup, each containing enough artery-clogging cholesterol to decimate half the secretariat. If you want to gift this, all you do is call up the toll-free number given and it will be delivered forthwith to the person of your choice. It never even has to cross your doorstep, let alone drip on your carpet.

Another example of gifting-food: Christmas puddings manufactured last November, packed in tin cans and “matured to perfection” in Aunty Philo’s home bakery till they achieve the consistency of Olympic putting balls. These present all the problems of cashew nut burfi with the added problem that they can cause hernias.

Now why would anyone give such a gift? Do you know of anyone in the entire country who would actually want a mass of congealed burfi? The only reason one can think of, is that the gift-giver is just going through the motions and saying, “Ok, now you can’t say I came to your party empty-handed.”

Another example is cosmetics. Men the world over go into these cosmetic stores which smell like cheap dance bars and buy their wives/girlfriends a gift package containing tiny sprays, tubes and jars with brand names like Fiama Yo Mama or La Oriole or Garish Fruits, which claim to whiten, moisten and soften everything, I would think the women would be better off just climbing into a washing machine, with extra detergent, softener and bleach. But essentially what the men mean to say is, “Look! I bought you a present” I doubt women use those things, they most likely just give it to their 3-year old nieces or nephews to play with, which is why you find some kids who smell like cheap dance bars.

And what do the women do?? They turn right around and buy presents for the men. “Oh see what I got you!” And the men say, "Great! A handy screwdriver set!” Then they stick the screwdriver set at the bottom of their tool box along with the cashew nut burfi.

But it’s Christmas and you have no choice. You have to buy thoughtful presents for your friends and family or they will hate you.

So, every year, when you find yourself sucked in by the “Fill-My-Christmas-Stocking-Epidemic”, remind yourself that it’s that very special time of year when we join our fellow Yuletide shoppers in sharing centuries-old traditions, such as trying to find parking space in Panjim.

We traditionally do this by driving around Panjim streets and roads until we see a shopper emerge and walk towards her car. Then, in very much the spirit of the Magii, we follow her, just as they followed a star, for weeks on end, until it led them to a parking space.
By keeping the car bumper about a metre from her heels, we warn other stalking cars that she belongs to us and shoo them away by playing “Jingle Bells” loudly through the car speakers.

So there it is! The true meaning of Christmas: FINDING A PARKING SPOT.

That…. and trying to catch the waiter’s eye at Britto’s in Baga.

Post-parking you then saunter into the store and set about finding Christmas presents for young and old.

Here are some helpful suggestions:

Presents for Children (Boys): Play Stations, Laptops, I- Pods, I-Phones, AK-47’s

Presents for Adults (Men): Play Stations, Laptops, I-Pods, I-Phones, Ak-47’s

Presents for Children (Girls): Toys R Us has once again outdone itself with offering a huge simpering array of dolls and accessories, including a tiny pouch for carrying the I-Pill. These dolls have Pentium chips inside them, can speak, sing and dance. There’s even one that is a dead ringer for Freida Pinto that dumps her boyfriend and sings “jai ho.”

Presents for Adults (Women): Cell phones with automatic voice-activated battery chargers and unlimited talk-time, 2 credit cards, a wedding ring.

……and for me: I don’t want to get too mushy here, but I think that if you truly care, the best present you can give me is not something money can buy. It is very precious, but costs nothing. It is only yours to give. I’m talking about your parking spot.

.....and here's A Merry Christmas and a Happy 2010 to my 3 blog fans.Ho!Ho!Ho! Hmmph!

Support the Arts: Hug a dancer!

I will admit I have become a huge fan of Jason and Sylvia, they are the dancing couple I mentioned in a blogspot earlier, remember?? Jason explains: Dance brought us and kept us happy together for 10 whole years before I figured out that dance isn’t a form, it’s a way of life and so I proposed and we got married……and Sylvia, not to be outdone says: I accepted because I knew that I would have the upper hand since I can do everything Jason does, only backward and in high heels!

Truth be told when I watch this couple dance together, I don’t see their technique, I see their passion. They don’t dance with their feet so much as they dance together with their hearts.

As for me I grew up in boarding school with 40 other boys in the same dorm. That’s how I first discovered the dance – waiting for the bathroom. Then in my early teens, with my hormones effervescing, decided that if I got started dancing that would be one way to meet girls. After all there are only two places where indiscriminate hugging is tolerated, the wedding boudoir and the ballroom and since I wasn’t anywhere near being married…. well, you can see where I was going with this thought……

Unfortunately the powers that be made me rethink my strategy and I gave up dancing because; even though my twisted teenage mind harkened to none other than the great George Bernard Shaw who wrote that “ Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire” I discovered that actually “Dancing is an art of getting your feet out of the way faster than your partner can step on them” I also figured, given my experience with my dance partners that “Life is too short to dance with ugly girls.”

And with time dance lessons got further and further away from me because:

a) I had to work to earn a living.

b) The girls I knew couldn’t dance either, those who did,for some reason wouldn’t teach me.

c) I did not have the spare cash for the lessons on my minimum wage.

d) I started raising a family.

Finally here I am in my twilight years, still able to walk, with some extra pocket change, trying to shed a few extra kilos, trying to express what is too deep for words, trying to communicate between body and soul, - learning to dance.

But it’s hard work. It takes a whole lot more effort and determination. Truth be told: you don’t just put your feet in the air and move them around. Dancing is a sweat job. If it were any easier I'm sure it would be called football. After your routine, when you wake up in the morning and nothing hurts you better check your pulse, you must be dead.

So after almost 6 weeks of pushing myself to stay with the dance programmes that Jason and Sylvia designed and unstintingly tutored us lesser mortals, I discovered new insights to dance in general and dancers in particular.Namely ( and I'm pretty sure Jason and Sylvia will agree with me here) :-

..."Practice makes Perfect," is not a saying, it's a way of life.

…Dance is your life, and the rest is just spare time.

...the first impression people have of you is: YOU DANCE.

...your hairline is receding from tying your hair tightly back into a ponytail.

...every wooden floor is a place for practicing.

...watching TV is not a time to relax, it's a time to stretch.

...you hear music and you NEED to dance.

...a new leotard makes a girl’s whole day.

...you walk with your feet pointed outwards.

...you look for new moves in dance movies.

… you cringe at mistakes Rakhee Sawant makes in the “Boogie Woogie” TV show.

...everything you get for birthdays, anniversaries, and festive occasions is dance related, even the alcohol.

...you have more pairs of dance shoes than street shoes.

...you start stretching whenever sitting on the floor.

...you prefer a conversation on music and dance than on politics or finance.

...you point your toes even during sit-ups.

...you use empty hallways to practice grand pirouettes.

...you do arm movements and move your feet around while waiting in a line, and people move away warily.

...everything you do has something to do with dance.

...you cancel dates because of dance classes.

...you promise to never stop dancing.

Had I learned the few “moves” that I now know back then. Here are some lines I may have used to pick up girls(who knows they may even still work for me now, winkety wink!). Then again, maybe not.

Me: “Honey, I’ll give you 10 reasons to date me and not that football player.”

She: “Hah! I’d like to see you try”

Me: : “Ok here goes….”

1.I've mastered 5 positions professionally

2. I have perfect technique, good rhythm and great hip rotation

3. I’m used to having bruises on my knees

4. No matter how long it takes or how hard it gets ... I do it with a smile

5. I’m not afraid to perform in front of audiences

6. I have a lot of rhythm 'n style

7. After a quick intermission I’m ready to go at it again

8. I don't mind getting hot and sweaty

9. I’m not as delicate and fragile as I look

10. And of course Flexibility...the possibilities. Huh? Huh?

Then I hear Jason whisper in my ear, “Just shut up and dance!”