When I was ten, my mother thought that to combat my awkward stage she would enroll me in Jazz Dance. In the late eighties there was nothing “Jazz” about Jazz Dance, but back then there was no Hip Hop Dance or whatever you call what Spears, Timberlake, et al. do now. Back then, the class where you learned the routines to Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation was in “Jazz Class.”
At the end of the eight week period of young girls over-critically comparing how big their thighs were beginning to get at the onset of puberty, and how small their chests still were, we were forced to present a piece choreographed by our teacher.
I was paired with probably the best dancer in the class. A twelve year old that had boobs and talent, two things I lacked. As we practiced our moves, I was painfully aware how laughable I looked next to her as she sultrily moved to, and wait this makes it worse, “Touch Me” by Samantha Fox.
There is something disturbing about a boyish ten year old dancing to that song. A week before we were to perform (in front of parents, ugg), my savior came in the form of a bad bus driver. My partner’s foot was run over by a bus. Yes, I was off the hook.
Fat chance. I now had to perform on my own. I no longer had her to distract people from my horrible dancing and un-Samantha Fox like bod. It was the worst five minutes of my life, especially with my former partner sitting front row glaring at me in her cast, thinking what a horrible job I was doing.
That said, as much as the sound of Samantha Fox singing sends me into fits of performance anxiety, I have got to admit she’s aged pretty well.
