Saturday, September 28, 2013
Workhouse Arts Center
Lorton, Virginia
8:00am-8:45am
Cost: Free
We figured there was nothing more "Dilettante" than a hula class on the grounds of a former prison/now art center. The part that was not so "Dilettante" was agreeing to do this at 8:00am with a minimum 35-minute drive for all of us. Oy.
The class description claimed that there was no prior experience or pre-registration necessary -- we were just to show up dressed for whatever the weather, as this would be held outside. I opted to wear my jammies (although marketed as "lounge wear," it was really just clothes I sleep in).
Aside: I also wore my jammies to an Oktoberfest party later the same day. I'm thinking a more peaceful civilization will result if we opt out of those silver jumpsuits with inverted triangles on the front that all sci-fi movies believe we'll be wearing and go with jammies -- I was in an excellent mood the entire day as a result. Granted, the brats and pumpkin beer may have also had something to do with that. But I digress.
When I first arrived at the Workhouse Arts Center, I ran into Dilettante Amy so together, we tried to find the class. On the way, I had to find a restroom, which we found in Building #11 (appropriately titled the "movement" building). Not even kidding.
We found the stage and there were two other people there in addition to the instructor and we began the class at 8:00am sharp. Dilettante Amanda joined us a couple of minutes later for what was to be the quietest Dilettante Activity in history.
The instructor let us know that she was not the usual instructor and then meekly and timidly led us through several steps with no explanation of how hula tells a story or the history of the dance or anything. We basically just cobbled together a bunch of steps and ended up with some semblance of a hula dance, that had something to do with picking flowers being a metaphor for a mother's love. Which was not all bad. What was all bad was the random old guy wandering around the arts center who sat down behind our class (facing our butts) and watched us for about 20 awkward minutes. Nobody talked during the whole class, and it just a very quiet, very uncomfortable class. And we didn't feel like we learned much more about hula than we knew going in. Oh, well -- guess you get what you pay for.
From class, we drove to Matchbox in the Mosaic District of Northern Virginia for some bloody marys and food. And a discussion about how much money with could make with a flaming-bag-of-poop delivery business. (Our financial planner Dilettante Amy's estimate: $5.) I blame Congress.
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