Time on the Pole, a Roach, and Raid.
In the year, plus I've had this tiny basement studio I seem to have lost my mind in it more than once. Okay, well, probably more than once or twice but . . . the point du jour here: there are moments in life when you have to stand back and laugh, cry, or just throw in the towel. Lately, as it has been no secret, I've been doing a lot of contemplating of where I'm moving to next. Boston was long on the life list, as has been parts of Europe, a sojourn (or more like a prolonged stay) in India, and a writer's retreat to France (with a long stop in Paris, the city of my long-time fantasy lover's dream). Honestly, I can't stomach to think about it all right now . . . the spiral is not a pleasant one to view at the moment. The sending of articles, the waiting on review, the wonder if the you'll cobble together enough writing checks to pay the bar tab . . .
The markers of life and stress should note: This is not a roach.
Yea. Twice now I've mistaken that fucking shower curtain for a roach. Twice now I've been wailing, screaming, showing my girl card while wielding a can of Raid turning my petite abode into a toxic waste zone. Yea, that doesn't even count the mouse incident. Dear lord.
Though, you need someone to come to bat and bring in a home run with a can of Raid . . . yea, I'm still not your gal. The other night there was a damned bug the size of a fucking poodle on the four inches of wall between my kitchen window and the ceiling. The fucker took up the whole space with the length of his body. Screams aside, the bitch slithered behind my stove where I am certain he died from the dousing of full on Raid at point blank range. Okay, it was more like an aerial assault and when the damned thing fell to my counter point blank range became my full on venue of vengeance. Literary comedy should have me tell you I envisioned it as someone who hurt my soul over the years. Naw . . . the black fucker was just a cause for raised hairs, toxic air, and me to exercise my soprano range.
Shit. Someone come hold me. Bring a bottle of bourbon too. I would say Woodford Reserve, but I'm not a terrible beggar. Just avoid the Tennessee brew and no Evan Williams. I mean, come on. The part-time Kentucky gal has still got to keep some elements of decorum.
Though, aside from toxic assaults on my senses and breathable air I've been making concerted efforts to A) combat the Lupus attacks as of late, B) get out more so that I don't become the sad, spinster who lives under the stairs, and C) do the cray cray shit I always do. So, yea, last week I opted for a trendy type workout . . . I also didn't want to run that day, and pole dancing seemed like a great counter. Yea, the marathon training is evil, and I'm not doing well. Most pointedly, the Lupus is beating the shit out of me this year. So much so, I'm fairly certain I'm going to have to drop down to a half marathon . . . ticking time will tell.
Here's where I should say first . . . that I'm not too keen on workout classes, especially those ones where you hate yourself and the instructor. While I realize staying active and working out are a part of growing up, hitting the years well past 24, and MDs tell me it keeps the good cholesterol in normal range and bad cholesterol down (which, in recent years mine comes in too low on both . . . another shit bomb of Lupus) I can't say it is something that I always relish. So, yea, working out is a chore of life. Though, here's the thing, I'm not keen on doing things I hate. So . . .
Enter the pole. As in Pole Dancing. Rah rah. Shake. Shake.
Here's the video from IG. Yup. I should note that I asked five people to come along, only one responded. Okay, two: one no and one . . . she came. So, a former student from a service project, who has long graduated, joined me to shake the money maker in the name of working out. I should also note she is convinced I was a porn star in a former life, for which I responded "the evangelicals and Christians of my past would have coronaries." Yea, I wasn't a porn star, but I was one of those little girls with ballet slippers and tutus. Had a solo once, and then Pops got an Army transfer and my sequins and slippers were cashed in for cowboy boots and weekend fishing trips to the coast of Texas. Eh, all in the roll of life's dices.
I've long made habit to try and get friends to come along on my workout hijinks . . . Remember the American version of _Fever Pitch_, and the females of the movie weekly meet up doing different gym workouts? In _Failure to Launch_ the boys did it . . . Anywho, I've long thought that a better way to meet up than over drinks (though, I don't ditch drinks as we know). It's also an easy way to introduce friends to each other, and if they don't hit it off there's a buffer. And . . . I always have fun at my classes: kayaking on/in the Hudson (even when I capsized), yoga (of various forms in studios and parks), swimming, running, some sewing . . . but, I wouldn't mind the company. It does get old and shady to be the solo gal all the time. The instructors even start to side eye it after awhile.
So, I try to coerce the peeps along. C'est le vie.
Anywho, you shouldn't knock that shit. I felt like I ran six miles after and hour and a half class. The next day I felt like I ran eight. I also had more fun there than I've had in awhile. This summer I'll be sure to kayak on the Hudson a few last times (and since no one ever wants to go I won't even bother asking anyone along this year), and my terrible thuds on the pavement are always a given for running . . . but pole dancing . . . I enjoyed myself so much I shelled out 69 bones for a package for four more classes . . . Yea, I probably should have stashed the 69 dollars in my depleted savings, but one can only make so many tee shirts (for which I don't think you want a run down of another 45 minutes sew) and kill so many shower curtains before something has to give. So, this Friday I'm making out with the pole again. Maybe by the end of my 30 day trial I'll be able to pull myself up on the pole like a trapeze artist. Or maybe I'll hate it and grew bored. Who knows . . . What I do know is it certainly is fun, and I must have enjoyed myself to let the video and pictorial evidence out.
The markers of life and stress should note: This is not a roach.
Yea. Twice now I've mistaken that fucking shower curtain for a roach. Twice now I've been wailing, screaming, showing my girl card while wielding a can of Raid turning my petite abode into a toxic waste zone. Yea, that doesn't even count the mouse incident. Dear lord.
Though, you need someone to come to bat and bring in a home run with a can of Raid . . . yea, I'm still not your gal. The other night there was a damned bug the size of a fucking poodle on the four inches of wall between my kitchen window and the ceiling. The fucker took up the whole space with the length of his body. Screams aside, the bitch slithered behind my stove where I am certain he died from the dousing of full on Raid at point blank range. Okay, it was more like an aerial assault and when the damned thing fell to my counter point blank range became my full on venue of vengeance. Literary comedy should have me tell you I envisioned it as someone who hurt my soul over the years. Naw . . . the black fucker was just a cause for raised hairs, toxic air, and me to exercise my soprano range.
Shit. Someone come hold me. Bring a bottle of bourbon too. I would say Woodford Reserve, but I'm not a terrible beggar. Just avoid the Tennessee brew and no Evan Williams. I mean, come on. The part-time Kentucky gal has still got to keep some elements of decorum.
Though, aside from toxic assaults on my senses and breathable air I've been making concerted efforts to A) combat the Lupus attacks as of late, B) get out more so that I don't become the sad, spinster who lives under the stairs, and C) do the cray cray shit I always do. So, yea, last week I opted for a trendy type workout . . . I also didn't want to run that day, and pole dancing seemed like a great counter. Yea, the marathon training is evil, and I'm not doing well. Most pointedly, the Lupus is beating the shit out of me this year. So much so, I'm fairly certain I'm going to have to drop down to a half marathon . . . ticking time will tell.
Here's where I should say first . . . that I'm not too keen on workout classes, especially those ones where you hate yourself and the instructor. While I realize staying active and working out are a part of growing up, hitting the years well past 24, and MDs tell me it keeps the good cholesterol in normal range and bad cholesterol down (which, in recent years mine comes in too low on both . . . another shit bomb of Lupus) I can't say it is something that I always relish. So, yea, working out is a chore of life. Though, here's the thing, I'm not keen on doing things I hate. So . . .
Enter the pole. As in Pole Dancing. Rah rah. Shake. Shake.
Here's the video from IG. Yup. I should note that I asked five people to come along, only one responded. Okay, two: one no and one . . . she came. So, a former student from a service project, who has long graduated, joined me to shake the money maker in the name of working out. I should also note she is convinced I was a porn star in a former life, for which I responded "the evangelicals and Christians of my past would have coronaries." Yea, I wasn't a porn star, but I was one of those little girls with ballet slippers and tutus. Had a solo once, and then Pops got an Army transfer and my sequins and slippers were cashed in for cowboy boots and weekend fishing trips to the coast of Texas. Eh, all in the roll of life's dices.
I've long made habit to try and get friends to come along on my workout hijinks . . . Remember the American version of _Fever Pitch_, and the females of the movie weekly meet up doing different gym workouts? In _Failure to Launch_ the boys did it . . . Anywho, I've long thought that a better way to meet up than over drinks (though, I don't ditch drinks as we know). It's also an easy way to introduce friends to each other, and if they don't hit it off there's a buffer. And . . . I always have fun at my classes: kayaking on/in the Hudson (even when I capsized), yoga (of various forms in studios and parks), swimming, running, some sewing . . . but, I wouldn't mind the company. It does get old and shady to be the solo gal all the time. The instructors even start to side eye it after awhile.
Anywho, you shouldn't knock that shit. I felt like I ran six miles after and hour and a half class. The next day I felt like I ran eight. I also had more fun there than I've had in awhile. This summer I'll be sure to kayak on the Hudson a few last times (and since no one ever wants to go I won't even bother asking anyone along this year), and my terrible thuds on the pavement are always a given for running . . . but pole dancing . . . I enjoyed myself so much I shelled out 69 bones for a package for four more classes . . . Yea, I probably should have stashed the 69 dollars in my depleted savings, but one can only make so many tee shirts (for which I don't think you want a run down of another 45 minutes sew) and kill so many shower curtains before something has to give. So, this Friday I'm making out with the pole again. Maybe by the end of my 30 day trial I'll be able to pull myself up on the pole like a trapeze artist. Or maybe I'll hate it and grew bored. Who knows . . . What I do know is it certainly is fun, and I must have enjoyed myself to let the video and pictorial evidence out.
Though, one of my long time friends asked me what the hell feminists think about pole dancing? Yea, I was moderately like WTF, but from him I pretty much expected it. The answer: it is what you make of it. I find it liberating, and for someone who has more body issues than Carter has liver pills that says something. And more intellectually, I would say that anything allowing you to interact with your own body, space, and perception in a healthy manner (and leading to better health) is a good thing. More specifically, women and girls are still caught between binaries of accepting their bodies and suppressing their emotions and desires. Too much skin, too little skin, too many wobbly parts . . . they all play into how we dress, date, attempt to date, and navigate through our daily lives. Thus, if you develop stronger core muscles, some upper arm strength, tone up, and find shimming on a pole a benefit to your overtaxed mind . . . shit, embrace that. It certainly has to be healthier, than say, making a toxic waste zone of the back end of your apartment when you lose the ability to tell a roach from a flower petal.
One of my favorite reads on the power of the pole: here.
Of course, since it is NYC and neither of us remembered to eat before shaking the bacon we found martinis and pasta after. Yea, pasta is really the only reason to work out like a dog . . . and, that a mango martini as we know I can never say no to a good mango.
Springtime in NYC is always a happy momentary bubble for me. The skies that night, a blistery blue on Manhattan sidewalks.
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