My friend and I decided to do a course in Pole dancing. My husband was stoked and offered to put a pole into the house, one with a trap door so that I could move between the bedroom and the kitchen quickly should he be hungry after sex. He’s such a comedian.
The brochure said it would help us to rediscover our inner goddess, get fit, have fun and learn some sexy moves. I am a bit of a gym class / yoga junkie so my fitness level is pretty high and in my ignorance I thought the pole dancing would be easy – how hard can it be to slide around on a pole and pout?
Far out brussel sprout! My friend, who has a dicky knee, was injured on the warm up and couldn’t continue the course. She got her money back, leaving me alone to attend the classes over the next four weeks on my own, which didn’t phase me too much, except for the fact that every other member of the class was twenty years old and yet to leave the gravitational pull of youth.
Yes, the room was full of perky boobs, tight bums and tummies so flat they could be used as a spirit level. I was the only mother of four trapped in a room full of Britney Spears lookalikes. Talk about crushing my vanity. The feeling of total inadequacy was magnified by the fact that pole dancing requires you to wear as little clothing as possible; tiny bike shorts or hot pants and crop tops. This is because flesh is what actually makes you stick to the pole, instead of sliding off and landing in a sad heap on the floor.
After the warm up was over I discovered that the ‘inner groove’ I had during my twenties either left me as soon as I expelled the first child from my uterus, or was never in existence in the first place. All those hours spent on dance floors with my friends, all those guys who approached us wanting to join in the fun – was it really just alcohol induced and not because we were sexy, slinky dance goddesses? My hips, during the next four weeks, were as lubricated and fluid as a stick of chalk. I had the sexiness of a praying mantis on muscle relaxants and felt as comfortable as a lobster doing laps in a seafood restaurant tank.
But the worst thing – other than crippling my sense of (deluded) sexiness – were the bruises that covered my shins as though I had been sprayed with buckshot, the pole burn on the insteps of my feet and inner ankles from sliding down the pole in yet another disturbing display of my ‘teflon-ness’ when it came to sticking to the pole, and the resultant carpet burn from crashing to the ground after yet another spectacular skid. Ah yes – all under the comical gaze of the Britney’s.
So, when the instructor asked me if I would like to enrol in Level 2 of the class, commencing the following week, I got the feeling that she was raised by kind, loving parents who taught her the value of good manners and compassion. It clearly wasn’t because of my enormous potential as a future pole dancing champion who would bring fame and glory to their little dance studio.
My ambition of being a pole dancer when I grow up has been ruined. I think the world can do without seeing me dry humping a pole like a dog and a lamppost. I’ll stick to writing instead. There’s nothing acrobatic or gymnastic about writing, no bruises, keypad burn or accidental head butting of poles and besides, isn’t the brain the sexiest organ in the body anyway?