I took a breakdancing class when I was in the third grade.
In Ipswich, Massachusetts, a beautiful, little New England village, our elementary school offered breakdancing lessons.
Maybe they were swept up in the hype of Breakin’ 2, Electric Boogalo, in the same way all your friends took swing dancing when the movie Swingers came out.
I’m not sure. I was in the third grade and not focused on pop culture trends. I was focused on making sure I brought my square of cardboard to each class. That was our version of the yoga mat. Unless you grew up on the mean streets of coastal Massachusetts, I’m not sure you can relate.
My signature breakdancing move was the worm.
Recognizing that I couldn’t windmill to save my life, and fearing that if I spun on my head long enough I’d develop some crazy skull callus like wrestlers with cauliflower ear, I focused on the worm.
It worked. My worm was ridiculous. It was the one move I was the best at. And it should have been because it was my signature move.
Now, a bajillion years later, surveying my life, I’ve started to realize I have “signature sins” too.