and there goes my second career choice

Last night I finally bit the bullet and forced myself to attend a free pole dancing class that I’ve had my eye on for a while.  I’ve been hesitant to try it for obvious reasons: I’m terribly uncoordinated and the closest thing to sexy I ever get is when I’m drunk and make bug eyes at the Southerner while simultaneously picking my wedgie.

After stopping to ask around 20 New Zealanders the location of a street that actually turned out to be an alleyway with only two buildings located on it, I managed to arrive at the class only 6 minutes late.  Next time, I’m just going to take the bus to downtown Wellington, close my eyes, spin around three times, and I’m pretty sure when I open them I’ll have found the dance studio again.

The first thing I noticed upon arriving to the studio was that I was dressed entirely wrong.  WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME? I meticulously scoured the dance class website for an hour, memorizing their “what to wear” list and STILL managed to look like a wannabe homeless dancer amidst a bouquet of life-long ballerinas.  In my defense, I didn’t bring any skin tight boy shorts or lycra tops with me to New Zealand.  They probably would have fit in my suitcase (or in my ass crack given how tiny some of the girls in this class were) but I was too busy trying to make room for my copy of “The Handbook of Test Development.”  Big mistake.

And how on earth did every other person know to bring a towel with them? It was supposed to be a beginner’s class for Christ’s sake.  Our first exercise was to grab on to the top of the pole, lift our bodies up and bend our knees so that our legs extended out and up in the air.  WHATEVER.  Do these poles come in velcro? Because then I might have a chance in hell of actually sticking to one.  My hands are sweaty.  So are my armpits.  And my ass for that matter.  They always have been.  I’m not sure why I didn’t take this life-long affliction into consideration when I decided to take a class that’s very essence requires grace and the nubile, dry hands of a doctor, not some sweaty beast who might as well wrap a towel around her pole for all the good it will do her.

As I was leaving the class, I heard the instructor ask an incoming student if she had practiced her “sexy faces” since the last class.  You’ve got to be kidding me. What are sexy faces and how do you make one? Especially while hanging on to that pole for dear life.  I tried to practice my idea of sexy faces in the mirror this morning and I think these two truly embody sexiness at its best:

“You’re my sexy dancer” face

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