Intro to Pole

Admit it, the title of this blog is the only reason you started reading.  It's ok, I planned it like that.

So for the past month or so I've been in a bit of a funk.  There's been a whole lot going on and life just seemed to keep taking a great big heaping poo all over me.  One of the most useful things about owing the federal government the remainder of my working career just so I can get a therapy degree is that sometimes (just sometimes, mind you) I actually use it for myself.  So I'm perfectly aware of my funks, and I'm also acutely aware that when those times hit I need to avoid people like the plague (please don't report that to the state of California, I don't need my license reviewed just because I told you there are moments when this therapist can't handle people).

Anywho, avoiding people just didn't seem to do the trick this time around and while I'll spare you the play-by-play, let's just say that I'm amazed I didn't drown myself in all of the eye fluid.  One night, in the middle of a particularly horrible looking meltdown (I'm an ugly crier) I was crying so hard that my nose got all stuffed up and I...wait for it...actually gagged at my inability to breathe.  Don't judge me - you know you've been there.

It was in that moment that I got peeved.  Like throw things at the wall peeved.  Seriously, I was crying so hard I couldn't breathe?  That's just ridiculous.  I decided I needed to get up, dust off and do something.  And if you know me, then you know the words "do something" never actually mean anything normal (who wants to jump out of a plane?).

So -

Enter the pole dancing class.

In fairness, I believe it's a pole FITNESS class, but potato-potahto.  It's a pole dancing class.  And the first one that you have to pass is called "Intro to Pole."  I had a blast with that information, but since there are already too many rambling thoughts in this blog we'll just talk about the class.

So there I am, pointing my toes and strutting around a pole in front of a gigantic mirror when the instructor says the word that makes me freeze in a panic. Any guesses?  No?  Ok, I'll tell you - that word is "sexy."  This was the second time in 2 weeks that someone used that damn word  in terms of how I was supposed to be and I'll tell you the same thing I said then - I wouldn't know "sexy" if it came up and slapped me in the face.  Or introduced itself.

I blame my parents.  Well, not really because it seems slightly awkward to blame your parents for not teaching you about "sexy," but I kind of do. And my sister (sorry Kat).  You see, I grew up on a soccer field.  Up until high school, 98% of my friends were guys.  I was usually covered in dirt or grass or mud or some other nature-like concoction.  At 34, I'm still flabbergasted by hairdos and makeup (this is where I blame my sister, because she was a bigger tomboy than I was and we never had those Coca-Cola moments where she was teaching me makeup artistry - but she did teach me how to inflict the most pain on a guy on the soccer field, so I think it was a fair trade-off).  I laugh at the people who do those 2 things for me when they say I can replicate it at home. Umm...ok.  I once had a boyfriend who tried to explain it by telling me to think of myself as a Christmas tree.  Really?  A Christmas tree?

Reader's Digest version - the use of the word "sexy" causes an anxiety attack of epic proportions.   Until "Intro to Pole," that is.  Somewhere, somehow, with all of the toe-pointing and rear-shoving-out-ing and the twirling and swinging and whatever the hell else I did, I found "sexy."

And I introduced myself.

Thank you "Intro to Pole" - thank you.