Worked Up

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.