Hollah!

When you take a dance class, you're supposed to watch yourself in the mirror so you can improve.

I don't. My eyes don't leave my hip hop instructor's reflection for the entire hour. I pretend to follow along -- one and two, three and four, pop pop hit. Everyone else looks at herself and thinks about how hot she looks. Not me. I'm there to watch the instructor. I think about how he would look doing that move in my room. I think about how fabulous we would look together on the dance floor of a steamy night club. I think about how the class would react if I jumped up onto his little stage and clung to his back.

I know how he would react -- with glee. "Finally!" he would exclaim.

Then I catch a glance at myself dancing in the mirror and it all comes crashing down. I don't look anything like he does when he dances, nor like any of the sports bra-only girls who clearly don't have a thought in their heads except dancing and looking cuter than me. I realize that every time he looks to his left, he's not, in fact, monitoring my sexiness. It's just a fantasy.

He knows almost everyone else's name in the class and even calls people up to the little stage to do the routine for the class. He doesn't know my name. I never get called up. But that's okay with me; I can admire from afar.

Until last night. It got personal last night, people. I was on the treadmill before class when I first saw her walking with him on a tour through the gym. A sports bra-only with abs that should be illegal. Fake boobs. Blonde hair. And, when I walked into class -- front and center. Bitch. She was living my dream!

We started our routine and of course she dances great. I know because I watched her the whole time instead of watching him. We practice over and over. She asks him what song this is and is ear to ear with smiles. I am deflated and annoyed. I mess up and half-ass the routine. I notice a lot of the other regulars are doing the same.

Then, greatness. Instructor points out another new sports bra-only. "Girlfriend is groovin in the back," he says. He goes over to her and dances behind her -- not in a creepy or suggestive way. In a supportive, you're-doing-great way. But not to front and center. She is PISSED.

I danced the rest of the routine with my eyes squarely planted on my own, smiling reflection. Screw those sports bra-only girls. They're a dime a dozen. Pop pop hit.