Thursday, March 1, 2012

The aftermath

Exhausted, and exhilarated, I decide I need to do this again. I am on a natural high that I have not felt since my ballet days, and having no such compunctions about being “bad” at pole dancing, not to mention the attractive offer of 20% off any purchase made on the day of your first class, I closed my eyes (figuratively, not literally- well, maybe both), and purchased a 5 class package for the somewhat steep price of $120. I had decided there was no such thing a “price” to my happiness, and vaguely flung my credit card in the direction of the assistant. If you ever read this, dear assistant, I am sorry, and I meant no disrespect, but rather that was a manifestation of me telling myself how many dinners and brunches I would have to be “not hungry” at, movies I “didn’t feel like seeing”, and clothes I would see while out shopping that “just weren’t that awesome” in order to recoup those costs!

Hobbling my way to the subway, I was still entranced by the magic I had just witnessed in the studio. I make my way to my friends’ apartment, and plop myself down on their couch. The thought of moving at that very moment is as foreign as that of spontaneously taking flight. Queue the barrage of questions about my first pole dancing class. (Not) to my surprise, the words come spilling out of my mouth, faster and faster, descriptions of everything from the pink and black studio with the poles in the middle of the dance floor, to the incredible apparition that was our instructor, to the other girls in the class, and to my burgeoning obsession with this form of dance. They listen, impressed with not only my physical ability to try a pole dancing class, but also with my lack of regard for “societal norms”. If only they had access to the inner recesses of my mind! But, fortunately, only I do. And now you, dear readers of this blog. At any rate, the night ended with us watching videos on youtube of pole dance competitions, and with each revolution, inversion, climb and descent each contestant made, my admiration (and envy) grew exponentially. I had convinced not only myself, but my friends, that this was a “legitimate” form of exercise and art, not so dissimilar to ballet, gymnastics, or yoga. My exhaustion from that first class completely overtook me and I surrendered, dreaming of whirling around the pole as gracefully as jeanyne butterfly (see below), all the while relishing the pain of the burn in my thighs and the bruising of my legs. All for the sake of art.

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