No Limit

If you think this is going to be some sort of inspirational essay, it’s not.

It’s actually about the cruelty of the gym teacher at our elementary school where every day, from 9:10AM to 3:20PM, he plays a song that goes…

“No. No.

No-no No. No.

No-no No. No.

No-no-no-no LI! MIT!”

That’s the whole song.

Repeat that over and over in your head and see if you don’t start to spill state secrets. For how long? I dunno. Ten. Ten. Ten-ten-ten-ten Min! Utes?

The first time I heard the song, the PA system was so loud and distorted, I thought the words were “No eat it,” as in something a two year old would say in regard to  a recently-introduced food. It is, after all, an elementary school gym class, and two years ago, they were drilled with a song called “What Does the Fox Say?”

“Ning ning ning ning ning a-ning a-ning,” “Whattchachachachachachachow,” and “Hatchie hatchie hatchie HO.”

I have quite the extensive vocabulary!

We can only afford one song per year. Public school. No no no no no no Bud. Get. The gym teacher buys the cheapest one he can get, and spends the rest of his allotment on his annual subscription to the Journal of Phys Ed Aphorism.

2016’s song is No Limit. It’s got that 80’s aerobics kind of vibe that makes you want to don a French-cut leotard and kick your Reeboks up over your Frost & Tip.

Yeowch!

“I have that ‘No Eat It’ song in my head,” I told my third grader.

“I think she’s actually saying ‘No Lemon.'”

No Lemon makes much more sense, especially to picky eaters. When you don’t want lemon, you want everyone to be sure you get No! Lemon!

Another staff member said she thought the song was “No Women,” at first, which was strange, since presumably it’s a woman singing the song. Then, she said, she listened closer and heard “No Wimint.”

Of course. No WIMINT! I can rest my addled brain knowing someone has finally taken a stand against wimint.

Ahh.

My husband is one of those people who is constantly whistling and denying it, and today, while stirring a bowl of peanut sauce in the kitchen, I heard him tooting out “No Limit.” The torture is complete. It has osmosed into our family home and gripped our collective brain.

No Limit. Dammit. That’s when I knew we were all doomed. Doomed!!! This song makes Mmm-Bop sound downright orchestral.

In case you’re curious, here’s the video from 2 Unlimited, the original artists from 1993!?!? And the song has lyrics??? I’m going to have a word with that sadistic gym teacher. Meanwhile, I hope these two aren’t still trapped in that pinball machine. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkEXGgdqMz8

Until we meet again – No wimnit e’erybody.

PEACE.

 

Glow Stick Dance Party!

Image from amazon.com, glow from within, man…

I was young and childless in the days of the rave. Back when the kids were going off their nuts on ecstasy and house music and ending up in all kinds of quirky entanglements – not like the bath salts of today where they’re actively trying to chew people’s faces off.

(Make America Great Again!)

That’s when the glow stick became not just for campers anymore. Along with the pacifier, it became a dance accessory!

Fast forward a few years. Like 15, 17 tops… you don’t want to know how many years, when I found myself in a stinky, enclosed space with strobe lights and pounding music, and glow sticks. Lots and lots of glow sticks in every configuration.

It’s the K-4 Glow Dance Party, y’all!

So off the chain, my kid puked OUTSIDE. Yeah, that’s right, she threw up on the way in as we were crossing the parking lot, because she’s a trendsetter. Did we go home? Hell’s to the NO.

It’s party time, it’s excellent…

We said, “Watch out, someone threw up here,” and proceeded to party.

Hang up those coats, little minions, and choose ONE sugary snack. You’ve got a bucket of candy at home.

When we stepped into the gym, we found: kids lolling on the floor in head-to-toe glow gear, kids crying and dancing at the same time, a Second Skin Rainbow suit kid pulling a Kai Lo Ren around by the arm (wouldn’t happen in real life, just saying), and – I KID YOU NOT – a fifty-something dude with a gut wearing giant DJ headphones and nodding like a high priest presiding over it ALL.

It was Kindergarten-4th Grade, and nobody was wearing deodorant, so the whole place smelled like Skittles and funk. My own little monsters disappeared into the undulating sea of arms and whipping hair as I joined the protective ring of parents watching for a collision or a glowstick to the eye.

They say youth is wasted on the young, but I disagree. As much as I love the hits of the Frozen soundtrack and Silento, I wanted to go home shortly after the Chicken Dance Remix, and harbored absolutely zero romantic notions of what I was missing. My fuddy-duddy kids agreed. We lasted 84 minutes.

“It smelled like Domino’s in there,” my son complained, unaware he was just as ripe as anyone else. Halfway home, he asked if the dance was over.

“It goes till nine,” I said.

“You mean they’re going to be there ALL NIGHT?!”

We came, we saw, we left early. Next year, maybe we’ll try to pace ourselves.

Images from amazon.com and Wayne’s World, Paramount Pictures 1992

Copyright Lynn van Lier 2016

The importance of mirrors

well, hello!

My daughter is in her room playing music. I hear the uneven thumping of her feet, an occasional thud when she falls down.

I don’t open the door and ruin her groove and I would never take pictures or video. This is far too sacred.

She’s doing what I did, and I expect most girls (and boys) did before we were so damn aware of our human frailties. She’s dancing in front of her mirror.

She has her own music. It’s certainly not mine – I do my best to tolerate the stuff. Who am I to criticize? My music was Billy Idol,

come on in, we’ll share our hair products

Michael Jackson, Culture Club, the Beatles and Rolling Stones. Like her, I didn’t really choose it anyway. It was in the air at the time. We throw stuff at kids that age and see what sticks. It has a beat, some memorable words… it does the trick.

The music is beside the point. It’s about the moves, the jumps, spins, splits, in no way perfect, just fun. Knowing her, they’ll never see the light of day. She just loves the way her hair swings when she dances. She loves the way her voice sounds when she sings.

I hope she has many years to come of reveling in front of the mirror for that imaginary stadium of adoring fans, before some chucklehead says she’s fat or ugly, or asks if she bought her outfit from the farm catalog.

I want her to twirl forever, catching the approving smile of herself in the mirror, who is also her best friend.

I’ll leave them alone together.

I look marvelous…