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??

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.