I think we can all agree that I am cool. Way cool.
I’m down with what’s hip, and I’m up with what’s in, so I regret to ask: am I the only adult who did not know what “twerking” is?
My punishment for this lapse in current culture (if you can call it that) was that I had to admit my ignorance by asking my teenage daughter to explain. She was smart enough not to show me, because as easy going as I may be, I can still ground her twerking behind, so instead of horrifying me with action, she described the dance phenomenon as a “booty bounce bum shake.”
Now I don’t really like those fancy nutrition milkshakes, but something about the word bum had me thinking we weren’t talking breakfast shakes. When nobody was home I went on the Internet and Googled “twerking” (don’t judge me; you did too). I must say I was disappointed. There is nothing new about this dance craze that was unique or interesting.
Shaking one’s moneymaker in a way that makes others question not only your sanity, but also your pants size, is not even original. We were all 21 once and flexible too. We did some form of bump and grind on a dance floor. If you once busted a move to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, that makes you guilty of some form of twerking too.
I don’t know about you but if I twerked today, I’d need physiotherapy and four days off work.
What is really disturbing about twerking is that we are all going to witness drunk relatives performing this move at every wedding, anniversary and celebration we attend from now until Christmas. Now that is a scary thought.
I know one other adult who was clueless about twerking: the Carpenter. He likely guessed twerking was the sound a broken power tool makes before you pitch it in the dumpster. I confess, I eavesdropped when our daughter asked him if he knew what twerking was. I can assure you, he didn’t like the booty bounce bum shake description either. He aged 10 years on the spot.
Dinner conversation that night led to an interesting discussion of the latest headlines of Miley Cyrus, the twerking tart. I am sicker of this kid now than I was of her character Hannah Montana back then. It seems my kids are too. And that’s a good thing.
They may know what’s trending in the big bad world, but they are smart enough to formulate their own opinions and have interesting dialogue with us about what they see in the celebrity culture that is thrust upon them. When their parents don’t act shocked, neither do they. Instead we talk about why things are – and are not – okay with us and our values. It starts by having some. Turns out if you stay in the loop with your kids, you don’t get so tied up in knots.
But just in case our children try and twerk outside of our home, we have an insurance policy: public displays of twerking will result in public humiliation in the form of the Carpenter in boxer shorts with his work socks pulled up super high, and me in my Betty Boop jammies, arriving to the party/dance/event to offer our own twerking performance to their friends.
And we’re crazy enough to do it.
Writing has been my passion since I learned how to hold a pencil (which I still cannot do properly). Despite my father’s insistence that I would starve to death in this career, I remain well fed and eager to write more. They say you should do what you love: I love to write.