as you may predict

One troubling aspect of taking semi-professional dance classes five-six times a week is the small faction of students whose apparent aspiration is toward the “fantasy” of the hip-hop dancer, as discerned by the gestural booty rubs that accompany a fixed gaze upon the self, a come-hither flick of the hair as if Ludacris were on the other side of the mirror and, most tellingly, a dance ensemble which is topped with a $350 pair of Bape tennis shoes, patent leather and getting thoroughly sweated in like it’s nothing. What the.
Having as-yet-unfulfilled dance-ensemble dreams myself, I would like to make note that I did not judge until I reached the part about the exceedingly expensive kicks — which, when worn by even the most frivolous of sneaker freaks, generally come equipped with a Q-Tip and a satchel of baby oil for gentle, spot-specific bathing. And yet, there it is, glossy kicks, half my rent, all creased and perspired until the final five-&-six-&-seven-&-eight-& of the cool-down stretch. What the.
Adventures in navigating the foreign terms of the bourgeousie,
JES