What the Hell is with this Class Part II: The First Day

The next day beings with my normal routine--coffee, Facebook, CNN and packing my son's bag for daycare. I pray nothing goes wrong with him today; that he won't wake up with a fever, diarrhea or a missing limb. I just want to get through the first day of class. Naturally, he wakes up covered in a thin layer of snot. This has been a daily occurrence since the beginning of fall allergy season. Although it's nothing new, on this day I feel a twinge of guilt dropping him off at daycare smiling and waving goodbye to his little booger face.

The car ride gives me time to daydream about my fellow classmates. I'm sure I've already got them pegged. There will be a group of young twenty-something ladies giggling together preparing to wow grooms on honeymoons or soon-to-be grooms on dance floors. There will be a couple of women who "look good for their age" out to prove to themselves that after bitter divorces they can get back in the saddle again. There will be a loud Black or Hispanic chick who keeps the class laughing and then there will be one odd ball--that'll probably be me. I'll be the one with dog shit on my shoe.

The lower level of the building is dark and smells like a damp basement. I am told to wait by the mirrored double doors for my instructor, Maria. Soon she appears, ushers me in and flips on the lights. Part night club, part aerobics gym, part nursery school the space runs the entire length of the building. Black lights, dance poles, couches and baby bouncers--it is the most perplexing space I've ever been in. The amount of baby gear including ride on toys and a crib assures me that I'm in a mom friendly place. Maria puts on some music and we make small talk--we're both moms with kids around the same age and we both have some dance experience, etc.

Apparently today's class, one of six, is going to focus on pole dancing. I explain that my goal is to perform, I take it seriously, I consider it art, yadda, yadda. I'm told that most people don't take this class. Most women go right into the beginner pole dance class looking for a way to spice things up for their husbands. Up until this moment I had not factored my husband's happiness or our sex life into the equation at all. I decide to table it for now but will definitely have to sort that one out later. After a few stretches at the pole, I notice no one else has shown up--are they all late? It's just going to be me. No hot divorcees, no loud girls, just me. Ok I've got a private tutor, all the better for me.

We begin with moving around the pole, "walking sexy" and simple turns. Maria moves effortlessly through space pointing out the importance of hand position and grip before one's feet ever leave the ground. I can walk and turn; however, my hands keep getting tangled like ribbons on a May Pole. Moving on to actual spins, Maria demonstrations are quiet and fluid. On my attempts I'm proud to actually get off the ground and gain some rotation. Heavy, awkward and afraid of falling, I subconsciously add a little hop right before spinning. This causes the insides of my calves to bang against the pole with the full force of my weight and instead of "swinging" I'm kind of crashing. It's a common beginners mistake and I am told it will be corrected once I gain more confidence. Make no mistake, this is serious business. Foot position, hand grip, weight distribution and muscle strength are absolutely critical--and that's not even worrying about making it look good. Maria's story about landing incorrectly as a beginner and breaking her foot was not doing much to help my confidence either.

My outfit isn't doing me any favors right now. The layers of "sassy" fitness wear are feeling more like a snow suit--and I'm trying to complete my Olympic routine on the uneven bars. I bring up my weight. At first glance I think I probably have a good 40 pound advantage over Maria but as she sheds her warmer layers, it's more of a 60 pound advantage. Completely unaffected by my comment, she simply offers that it is a muscle to weight ratio and that there are plenty of voluptuous ladies who are avid dancers. To prove her point further, she flips through an industry magazine and in fact, shows me pictures of large ladies, elderly women and yes, men, pole dancing. I take her at her word; however, I have a lot of YouTube research ahead of me.

By the end of class I'm sweaty and dizzy but also excited and hopeful. Maria feels that I will be able to put together a basic routine to music that includes floor work, removing clothing and some pole dancing--ambitious for six weeks but she seems confident. It's kind of a sidestep from where I really want Bunny to go but it will at least give me a point of reference in developing the act I think I really want. My homework assignments for the Thanksgiving week are to practice "walking sexy" in heels--do I even own a pair anymore?? Between mouthfuls of sweet potato and stuffing I am also supposed to practice sexy dance and movement. I'll see if I can work that in while washing dishes with Grandma and setting out the pies.

While starting for home I can already feel my hands, shoulders and back pulsing with red-hot pain. By the time I walk in the house, I'm exhausted. I can feel bruises blossoming on my knees and calves. I lay on the couch for the spare twenty minutes I have before picking up my son from daycare, close my eyes and contemplate a good spot in the house to install my pole.

Next time: Class Two--Floor work??