Imagine you are a wanna-be cheerleader. You were a wallflower in high school, but you are convinced that your snappy new style and peppy new personality can get you a round-trip ticket on the foul-odored bus that follows the basketball team to and from games.

So, you practice up, you write an exciting new, evolution-based cheer called “Pound Them Back Into Amoebas,” and you stand around with your tweezed and plucked competition, trying to come up with ways to sabotage them. You watch the other routines with a critical eye, and secretly delight when Mitzi, the dyslexic sexpot, gets nervous and recites her cheer backward.

They call your name. It’s your turn to shake your bonbon and earn your much-coveted position on the cheerleading roster. You take a deep breath, and start your cheer, channeling Darwin and all of your primate ancestors. At the end of your cheer, you do a slow motion, Matrix-style cartwheel to blow away the competition.

The question is this:

When your feet are at their highest point in the midst of that cartwheel, are your armpits still considered underarms?