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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