Recently, I was visiting my friend Rachel's house for the first time for our book club meeting, and after we had discussed the book, she guided us around on a little tour. As we walked around, I noticed a picture on her wall. It was a photograph of her surrounded by a bunch of girls with a stripper pole in the background.
"Oh that was from my bachelorette. My friends and I took a pole-dancing lesson," she explained.
Seeing that immediately brought back an old memory of my one and only pole-dancing experience. It was years ago, back in Baltimore. I was at a party hosted by a coworker and I began chatting with his fiancee. We hit it off and eventually she invited me to join her for a work-out class.
"Just to let you know, it's a little bit different. How do you feel about pole-dancing?" she asked.
I gulped. I had tried a few of the group work-out classes offered at the college gym, and all I could remember about them was that I looked spastic in comparison to the slick moves and gyrating pelvises of my fellow exercisers. I promised myself I wouldn't subject myself (or others) to my uncoordinated movements.
Still, the idea of trying out pole-dancing intrigued me, and since she assured me it would be just the two of us and the instructor, I decided to try it out. If for no other reason, I figured I would get a good work-out.
What I ended up working out was my frustrations and humiliations.
I arrived at the studio and walked in. I had dressed in my typical exercise gear- sweats and sneakers. But when I saw my friend, I realized I was unusually overdressed. She was wearing a tight fitting tank top, short shorts and actual stripper heels. I looked down at my scuffed up old Nike's and the exercise pants I bought off the clearance rack at the University Union, and felt ridiculous. What the hell was I thinking? I was purposely going to a class that was based around learning sexy moves, and I dressed like I was going to be moving a sofa.
Besides helping to achieve a proper, sexy mindset, there is also a practical sense to dressing skimpily. The instructor explained that you held a better grip on the pole using your own flesh. So while my friend warmed up by slinking and draping herself against the pole, I tried hiking up my pant legs and smashing up my sleeves. I thought my sneakers would still be OK, but the instructor told me I had to nix them and just try it barefoot. I should probably mention that this was during the winter time, when a pedicure is not top-of mind.
So there I was, trying to match the instructor and my friend's seductive moves. As they both slithered against the pole, I simply clung to it for dear life. They clasped the pole with their thighs and elegantly bent backwards, and slid down. I tried to do the same but lost some of my sex appeal as my thighs squealed and screeched down the pole. I even tried to do a jump and twirl, but I didn't realize my own weakness and ended up swinging my legs around too hard, slamming my knee cap into the pole. I slithered down it then, too- wincing all the way down.
Thus ended my pole-dancing career. I thanked my friend for inviting me and for the memorable experience, but was certain I would never get a call back from The Hustler Club anyway. I might try it again someday, but next time I'll make sure to pack some stripper heels...and Icy Hot.
One of the best things about having visitors is finally having an excuse to try some things you've always wanted to do around your town but never got around to. Joe's parents were here for a few weeks, and towards the end of their visit, we began trying to come up with some new things to do.
Last Thursday when we were on our way to trivia at Ed's Tavern, Barb, Joe's mom, and I began talking about something to do for Friday.
"You know what I'd like to do...," she began with a coy smile. I wondered what she could have in mind. "I'd like to visit the dog track."
I was intrigued. I had driven by the dog track in Sarasota a few times and always wondered about it. So while Joe was going to be out filming, his mom, dad (also named Joe) and I would take in a few races.
Now, the only racing experience I ever had was going to the horse track back in New Jersey at Monmouth Park. We would go once in a while during the summer, and once I was old enough to gamble, it became much more exciting. And while it's no longer the jewel it once was, it still had a lot of charm.
As we walked into the sparse building, illuminated with harsh fluorescent lights and cheap beer signs, I had to smile. This was a place that had no disillusionment about itself. It's a rough and ready place built for the enjoyment for those with small pockets in need of cheap thrills. I like places like that.
Joe bought the program and we walked up to a window to place our bets. With tickets in hand, we went in search of a spot to watch the races and grab a bite to eat. We carefully ascended the wet outdoor stairs and came into a half-restaurant/half viewing area. Tables were set into cornered off boxes and went up several levels. We stepped up to the hostess stand and were met by an older woman and a waitress with a bloodied eye. The older woman led us to a table right in front of the window that overlooked the track and she began telling us about her experience training horses for races- in fact, it turns out she worked the Preakness in Baltimore and even visited Monnmouth Park a few times.
She gave us some pointers on how to bet and then showed us where we could place our bets. Barb and I went up to the betting window first. I was already fascinated by the people we would see enjoying a past-time that seemed well past it's prime, but it was even more fascinating see the people that still made their living there.
We approached two old men sitting behind what looked like cash registers from the 80s. I followed Barb's lead and went to the less frightening of the two. I listened to her wording when placing her bet, but I decided to be a little less cautious.
"$2 for KB Oscar to place."
The grizzled old man scowled at me. "Wha?" So I repeated.
"$2 for KB Oscar to place, please."
"I don't know what you're saying." Feeling flustered, I practically shoved the program in his face, pointing to the dog's name. When he still didn't understand, I simply said, "Number six...to place."
"Oh, six to place," seemingly less tense now that the misunderstanding had been cleared.
I walked back to our table with ticket in hand, but I couldn't understand why the man had been so confused. I relayed the story to Barb and Joe and as we looked at the program a little closer, we realized why.
"This is the third race, not the fourth. We've been betting on the wrong race!" Barb said. We all laughed and groaned at our mistake.
After that, we began betting on the right races, and managed to all win a little something here and there. But as we were waiting for the next race to begin, I watched as the dogs were led to the track. Meanwhile the announcer described each dog. So-and-so from someplace, weighing in at 60 pounds. So-and-so from another place, 72 pounds.
I noticed one dog sniffing the grass and suddenly squat to do it's business, and a funny thought popped into my brain. Barb and Joe are some of the most relaxed and easy-going people, I so I thought I'd share it.
"You know what would be funny? If the announcer saw that dog pooping and said, 'Number 4, weighing at 75- no, wait....72 1/2 pounds.'"
We both busted out laughing and after we shared it with Joe, we began to place bets on which dogs coming out were going to relieve themselves before the race.
Yes, it was a classy night all around. I don't know if I'll ever go to the dog racetrack again, but thanks to my in-laws, I can at least say I've gone once. And I did love the low-down, laid-back attitude of the place. You come to a place like that and leave your expensive loafers and pretensions at home, because when you're here, highfalutin is for the dogs :)
