It’s safe to say many people have a part of their life – be it a hobby, television show or band – that they would consider an obsession. When I say obsession, I mean the harmless, “OMG I’m obsessed with Sex and the City and I find it totally pertains to my trials and tribulations as a single woman!” or the “I’ve seen Phish like 70 times, man. Yeahahaha,” kind of obsession. Not the “I can’t sleep until I’ve touched my nose to the door knob 28 times” kind. You, uh, should probably get that checked out.

My obsession – and people that know me well know this – is hip-hop dance. Now that I’m interning in New York City, I spend an inappropriate amount of time in the 42nd St. subway station because there is a group of guys there that occasionally perform some badass hip-hoppery. I’ve downloaded almost all the Missy Elliott videos because she always has the best dance sequences. I even watched Julia Stiles robot-act her way through Save the Last Dance. You want to see some pop ‘n’ lock? Let me just grab my copy of Darrin’s Dance Grooves.

Please notice, however, that my obsession only goes as far as observation. I attempted a Norris hip-hop mini course my freshman year, but I was a sham. I have neither the sass nor confidence nor general skill to actually be a hip-hop dancer, only the devotion to watch it in all of its glorious forms.

When I realized I had an obsession, I became curious as to where it came from. What caused me to reach out to this dance, especially since I could never do it myself?

I began tracing my memories of hip-hop dance. I thought I had found my obsession’s source in the final performance scene of Sister Act II, where Sister Mary Clarence tells the students to take off their robes, and they proceed to “keep it real” on stage. Alas, my obsession goes back even further – back to a dark time in my life, when I was a Brownie.

Any former Brownie knows that earning patches for your shit-brown sash was part of the game, and perhaps the most coveted was the dance patch. To earn some, my troop held a dance extravaganza at one of our weekly meetings where we all had the chance to shake it. My best friend, Audrey, and I had partnered up, and with some shimmying, killer high kicks, a cartwheel or two and some well-placed forward rolls, we had earned our dance patch. It should have been a shining moment, but it will forever be burned into my memory as the day the dance died inside of me. Not a single member of our troop clapped. Not even pity claps. Just bitter silence, the kind that would haunt me for the rest of my hip-hop danceless days.

But maybe it’s for the best. You know what they say: Those who can, do. Those who can’t – we spend the rest of our lives watching You Got Served.

Medill junior Laura Moore is the PLAY pop culture columnist. She can be reached at [email protected]