I have a confession. I am a horrible dancer. I’m not being modest. I’m actually that bad. The only move I have managed to master is swaying my hips about 2″ in each direction. One time I tried to add in my shoulders. It didn’t go well.

I don’t think I was born a bad dancer. I was cursed.

When I was a child my mom signed me up for the perfect trifecta – ballet, gymnastics, and soccer. It’s a triangle driven by millions of moms each week. Gymnastics as awesome, there was a foam pit. Soccer was the shit, when it rained there were mud puddles to jump in. Ballet was eh. Well, actually, it was worse then eh. There were tutu’s.

I don’t remember my final day of ballet but it has become a piece of oft repeated family legend. My mom tells me, and anyone I try to convince that I am not competitive, that one day after class I asked my teacher “So whose the winner?”

Well, if you are over the age of two and not me, you probably know that in ballet there is no winner. I thought that this was not just unfair, but a travesty. So I quit. My ballet career had ended just about as soon as it started.

So here I am, a horrible dancer who, despite this curse, will storm the dance floor and shuffle back and forth. I know I look like a fool. I own it.