Liberate the Tiny Dancer
I arrived in Monte Estoril this evening with my running shoes ready. The plan was to leave my satchel with friends and then run freely along the ocean. But alas, I was intercepted by peer pressure to go to a hip hop class.
Friends: “Oh, you will sweat so much, we promise! It is really fun.”
Me: “What type of hip hop are we talking about? Bad Portuguese hip hop? Bad American hip hop? How bad will it be, exactly?”
I was sure the music would be varying degrees of awful. Somehow I was persuaded to go along, but only because I like these people so much.
And you know, the music wasn’t that bad, and I was a pretty good hip hop dancer.
If, by “pretty good” you mean, “moving one and a half beats behind and often imitating the awkward movements of amphibious creatures.”
I am fairly sure my tiny dancer has just not yet been released. Yet I am hanging onto the promise that Jesus came to proclaim freedom for all captives. (Amen.)
You may also be keen to know that shaking it like a polaroid picture is purportedly not that effective.