I can’t twerk. I found that out today while trying to illustrate the content of a video on YouTube® to my mother:
I had seen the video about an inflatable tube guy–the type designed to draw attention at car dealers and outdoor events featuring live disc jockeys–which had become kinked and it’s “head” stuck to a telephone pole. The resulting motion created by the fan at its bottom looked like the tubular dude was twerking, but my impression looked more like a bad yoga move, or maybe a bad “my pantyhose are in a bind” move.
So is it a sign of my age, or of my flagging sexuality, when I can’t parlay the “boo-tay” like some other women? Probably not. There are still men out there (note I say “men,” not “guys”) who look for wit, intelligence or somebody who is fun to be with, and who don’t want to be Alan Thicke if I’m going to be Miley Cyrus. So my “boo-tay” has no beauty and the junk just lies in the trunk. Tyra Banks would say I can’t “tooch” either. She’s right. We older women may well have a middle-age gut that looks more shapely than what we sit upon.
At the midlife point in women’s lives we all have those moments of thinking about how sexy we still are or are not. I’ve never been one to plug the sexual side, and my bumps and grinds have always been more like collisions and chainsaw hamburger. Sure the men look at the twerkers, and they marry some of them (and divorce them, too), but I will just concentrate on walking tall and in a straight line. And I’ll leave the twerking to the experts, like the tube guy.
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