What the Hell is with this Class Part I: The day before

So there was a little misunderstanding with the scheduling of the class. I've been waiting trepidatiously, checking email by the hour for the last three weeks trying to figure this out. The other day it finally came together. For those just checking in, I'm taking a six week class in strip tease, lap dance, floor work and pole--Stripping 101. Aptly named. Here's a little about the goings on the day before my adventure.

I am a person that needs to know the expectations and culture of a place much in advance of getting there. I generally do no like surprises and pride myself on being well-prepared in all situations (I would have made an awesome Girl Scout--don't quite know why I fought my mother tooth and nail on that one) maybe I can attribute it to motherhood but it's more likely due to my general social anxiety and fear of being late for things. Having a game plan of sorts is a comfort to me. I like to test the Ph before dipping my toe in--I'm cautious and I respect rules.

So the day before class I reviewed some "instructions" from the website.

No jewelry of any kind. Not a problem, check.

No body lotion--it makes the poles slippery. Ok, check.

Layer clothing so when learning to strip you don't end up naked. Wow. Ok, check.

Hhmmm....clothing...the website says something about "flirty" work out clothing. I don't think my plain white t's and oversized sweatpants are going to cut it as being "flirty".

I decide a shopping trip to the nearest boutique is in order. Looking the part is going to help me feel like I know what I'm doing. I'm walking in completely green, t an inappropriate outfit will shake my nerves. I'm like that everywhere. I get worked up if I'm going to a new restaurant and don't know what the dress code is. Like I said, I'm big on social rules.

So I head out, two-year-old in tow, to my closest fashion house, Kmart. I'm not kidding. Unless I want to drive about 45 minutes in one direction or another, my choices for a quick outfit are Kmart, Wal-Mart and Fashion Bug. I could stretch the radius a little further and end up at Target, which I do enjoy, but not today.

List in hand, I head straight for "Ladies Undergarments" where my choices are Joe Boxer, Hanes, Maiden Form. This is going to be tough but I like a shopping challenge. My eye goes to the rack of cheap gaudy Christmas inspired lingerie--it may be worth a shot or a laugh at least. As I dig through the rack, not sure what I'm looking for, my son starts babbling in my ear. I mutter"It's for Christmas" thinking it will in some way pacify him. "MOMMY! BRING IT HOME FOR CHRISTMAS! GET THAT FOR CHRISTMAS, MOMMY"! at the top of his lungs, echoing throughout the department sending up a neon sign that some mom is looking at lingerie with her two year old. Awesome. He attracts the attention of a little old lady and they become engaged in a deep conversation about the small boo-boo at the end of her nose, how she got it, and her lack of a band aid. Fine, I think, let her occupy him for a minute. She's so engrossed that she doesn't notice what I am intently studying just over her shoulder. I realize that this really is in no way what I am looking for; also made clear by the absence of a single pair of bottoms in an XL--a requirement for my ass. I decide it's just as well--it seems a lot of us curvy ladies are planning on getting busy this holiday season. After a good half and hour to forty minutes, an eternity by two year old standards, I decide on my wardrobe for class and get home.

I get naked in front of my bedroom mirror and decide to create this outfit in reverse--starting with the least amount of clothing I am going to feel comfortable in in front of others. I don't really anticipate having to get down to the nitty gritty on day one, but you never know. I work my layers--deep cut sports bra and black briefs with lace embellishment. Yes, I nod to myself, this is doable and my chach is covered. Next layer--black lace tank top and some kind of mini girdle thing I can pass off as booty shorts, ok. Another tank top and high cut cotton shorts over that, and finally a pair of black fleece pants and off-the-shoulder-sweatshirt thing just so I don't freeze on the way there. Looking in the mirror at this final layer I resemble the 20/30-something moms walking together in the mall, sipping lattes and gossiping on their way to Pilates. The type of moms who pretend they don't see me from behind their Channel sunglasses as I give them the "what up, other mom" smile and nod. The look says casual but sassy, it says I actually give a shit about my appearance today; however, I feel like I'm ready to go play in the snow--all layered up and a little scratchy.

I peel it all back off and take a hard look at the materials I have to work with. Not too bad. I'm not crazy about the stretch marks across my belly but from a distance you can't really see them. My butt is another story. It's like the summer cottage or the pool house, related to the main building but definitely it's own entity. There is not much I can do about these cheeks--I inherited them from my mother and grandmother, the ass God chose me to have. I don't really have a problem with it. I reach in the back of the underwear drawer to pull out the lone thong I own. I do not like thong underwear. Quite frankly, unless I'm wearing a short skirt, which I don't even own, if panty lines are going to be an issue I'd rather not wear undies at all. I keep this pair around in case of an odd fashion emergency. It's metallic silver. I put it on and am instantly uncomfortable. I get a rear view in the mirror, dance around a little, and promptly decide that Bunny will never be wearing a thong in performance. I just don't like the shape, or perhaps lack there of, it creates around me. Bunny will stick to booty shorts or high cut briefs or something flashy, but no floss. I stick them back in the way back of the drawer, throw my sweats back on and head downstairs to check my dinner simmering away in the crock pot.

Tomorrow will either be a good day or a bad day depending mostly on the amount of courage I muster up. That is, unless, the runny-nosed blonde boy smashing play dough on the kitchen floor does something to sabotage it. Like, for instance, gets sick and can't go to daycare or gets sick at daycare and I have to pick him up early. Of course I would cancel and stay home with him but after all this anticipation the idea of having to wait until after Thanksgiving to at least see what this is all about is a thought I can't bare. I give the Mexican beef a stir and start the salad.