Poledancing And Spandex

I’ve been super busy and tired this week: going out a lot and doing a lot of stuff at work and trying to get ready for all the houseguests I will have for the next six weeks, starting with Abi’s visit which begins on Tuesday. Hence I cannot think of a smooth writerly way to tell you that last night realized one of my many girlish dreams and finally went to a strip club and took a poledancing lesson.

A friend from work was having her hen night (that’s bachelorette to you, Americans, and did you know that it’s apparently pretty common to invite your mom to yours, here in New Zealand?) and the girl organizing it booked us in for a hour’s lesson at the Santa Fe, one of Wellington’s multiple strip clubs. The party invitation specified that you had to wear high heels and short shorts, two items which, despite that rockstar lifestyle reputation I oh-so-deservedly have, are not rife in my wardrobe. However, a trip to two stores with “Warehouse” in the name later, I was all stocked up and giddy with anticipation. I admit that I’m not as into all things stripper-esque as I was a few years ago, but you know. Still. I’d been talking about it for the last couple of weeks (“So, are we going to get a show?” being the common refrain) and was really curious to see what it was like.

Well, what it was like was a completely empty dark room with a lot of fluorescent lights and a stage and some poles on it, was what it was like. Our group were met by our instructor Sarah, who was a lovely blonde girl wearing some really camel-toey shorts and some fantastic transparent-heeled hooker shoes, got us started with a couple of easy moves:

After doing a little yoga warmup, of course.

Fittingly, our “hen” (i.e. the bride) took to the pole as if she’d been doing it for years.

The rest of us (well, me) didn’t have it so easy.

Much like the flying trapeze, as I have had reason to discover, poledancing really takes it out of your upper arms. And back. And core. And thighs. And it’s been several months since I’ve danced. And I missed yoga this week. And then I got all these bruises. I don’t think I was expecting it to be easy, necessarily, but, never one to embrace beginner’s mind I got very frustrated and started asking this poor instructor all sorts of questions, like “Do I pivot on the right or the left when I hook my ankle?” and “Which way does the knee go when I’m crawling on the floor?” and “I can’t seem to get my leg up: do I just take a running leap at the pole or what?” Everyone else was giggling and drinking wine and enjoying themselves while I was putting up a fuss because I couldn’t perfect my moves on the very first try. Eventually I gave up and hopped into the cage, where a passing familiarity with undulations and structural rolls (thanks, tribal!) resulted in my being able to do some of the non-twirling moves a little better, just like Alex and Kelly could:

It ended up being a lot of fun, even though I overthought it to the end and even though I was in a position to remind myself of my long-held belief that I would rather show up somewhere naked than in shorts. Some of the girls talked about taking classes and I chatted to the bartender for a while, as he told me about all the arm definition I would see if only I too would join a class. And then it was time for dinner, where, after much discussion with Kelly and Alex, I decided not to treat this one paltry little hour at Santa Fe as a true visit to a strip club. My rule is that it doesn’t count as a strip club unless there are actual strippers, actually stripping, and there weren’t (Sarah’s only a dancer), so my tremulously hopeful dream will have to remain just that for the foreseeable future.

Almost half a glass of wine and an veggie antipasto later, it was time to head over to San Francisco Bath House to meet Jill and to see my favorite local 80’s-video-inspired-dance troupe, the Real Hot Bitches perform. It was Jill’s last weekend in Wellington…she and her partner are leaving for Australia on Thursday and I don’t want to talk about it…and as such was rather emotional for me. However, I wouldn’t even be mentioning it here…in fact I’d be ending this entry right now, as I am going to a play in twenty minutes and also have to finish making my pasta salad for a potluck tomorrow…were it not for the fabulous fact that I happened to be in the front row when they started doing their thing and also happened to have my camera on me. Poledancing and spandex: what more could a girl ask for from a single weekend?

And here we have the Bitches performing a touching rendition of one of my favorite songs of all time, “Push It” by Slat-N-Pepa. The best thing about these guys is that they all unconsciously lip-sync all the words to all the songs.

Well, the heavenly light of their fluorescent tracksuits is pretty good, too. I ran into one of the Bitches’ founders in the ladies room and she said they dance every Sunday afternoon right down the road from me. The are trying to recruit people to join them in their quest to have the largest group choreographed dance in the history of the world at the Cuba Street Carnival, and you don’t know me if you think I’m not volunteering for that. I found a way to casually mention that I’d learned the Thriller dance a couple of years ago and I could tell by how the Bitch flung her mullet wig over her shoulders and adjusted her lycra g-string that she was impressed.

I’m having such a good time right now, man. I’ve decided it’s okay to be a little tired and a little busy…as long as I’m busy having FUN.