Wait’ll I Twerk For You Later
I went to my Rotary meeting Tuesday morning—Rotary, I mean, old, clueless people who don’t know anything hip that’s going on—and everyone was atwitter over a certain musical starlet’s butt at the VMA’s. I slurped my coffee and listened to my table mate yo-yo between horror at what this phenomenon will do to his innocent daughter and horniness at what it did to him.
I am a bitch. “If you care about your daughter,” I said, “you wouldn’t talk about these things. That’s the only reason certain celebrity people do them, you know.” He excused my comment as Andra’s-Morning-Bad-Attitude and actually agreed with me. We lived to remain friends for another day.
Imagine my dismay when MTM brought up twerking at dinner. I mean, he asked me out for a date. He made reservations. He wanted me to wear fetching clothes and makeup and strappy shoes. I even flat-ironed my hair, only to be reminded that I am a fading version of desirable.
“I spent half the day on the phone, listening to people go on about this twerking thing. What IS it?” MTM sipped his wine and looked at me, his used-to-be-celebrity-obsessed partner in life.
I gazed at him across the table. “You mean, you don’t know?”
“You didn’t, just out of curiosity, watch some underage rear end twerk online?”
I twirled a lock of hair around my finger. I think I even winked at him. “Well………wait’ll I twerk for you later.”
Me, who gets embarrassed when I take my clothes off with the lights on. Me, who collapses in red-faced mortification when I try to be sexy.
While I was wondering how to pull off a fetching twerk, the waiter hovered at the edge of the table. “Dessert is on me,” he said. I think he actually shimmied.
“OMG!!!!!!!!” I stage-whispered to MTM. “What does THAT mean???”