Pole Position

That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program.

It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and we don't have many visible body parts in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.

“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.

“But everybody’s doing it.”

“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”

That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.

However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.

The videos I saw on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze.

Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr waving wisps of hair across my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.

It was then I realized that the pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole. It toasted my marshmallows in seconds.

My thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my behind bore the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin. Now I know why firemen wear pants that Smokey the Bear couldn't claw his way through.

Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. On the whole, it’s not
a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.

Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the summersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on the team. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning in that old tire in circles, and grinned.

At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if the blasted thing didn’t look better in those old gym shorts than I did.

Pole Bending

That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program. It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and have little or nothing in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.

“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.

“But everybody’s doing it.”

“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”

That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.

However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.

The videos I had seen on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining silver pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze. Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr stirring strands of hair around my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.

That pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole.

And cook a turkey it did. The fat grabber treads of my thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my thighs had the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin.

Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. I let go of the pole with a better understanding of the importance of the proper attire for pole dancing.

On the whole, it’s not a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.

Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the somersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on Team USA. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning that old tire in circles and grinned. At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too.

But the worst part was that the blasted thing looked better in those old gym shorts than I did.

True Colors

My Mom never had The Talk with me. I had to find out by trial and error and I almost lost my socks. All in all, the first time I tried it, the results weren’t pretty.

I don’t know if it was the toddler size sweater I wore fresh from the dryer, or the “Just My Size” underwear clinging statically to my back as I strolled down the hall, but as people turned to stare and gawk, I felt like everybody knew that I’d tried it for the first time.

Dirty laundry. It’s a tough lesson to have to learn on your own.

A true friend would have told me about fabric softener. A few tips on Use and Care Instructions as a second language wouldn’t hurt either.

These days I’ve been doing laundry long enough to know how to handle my delicates, but I still have questions.

Exactly how do you wash a shirt that’s both red and white? If it says, “Wash in like colors” do you put it in with the reds or the whites? I’ve tried it both ways. Luckily pink is my favorite color, but now my husband won’t get undressed at the gym.

Deep down I understand why Mom never talked to me about natural fibers and the danger of shrinkage. But why didn’t she tell me that too much bleach would rot out the seat of your underwear like month-after-Christmas fruit? Was she afraid to tell me about laundry? Afraid that hot for whites would be too much for my tender psyche?

Not on your stain stick.

She didn’t raise four kids without honing her survival skills. The odds were good with four kids running around, that if she brought out the laundry products, somebody would be likely to try to remove the spots from the cat.

So she kept her pre-soak hidden on a high shelf and her spray starch tucked away behind the family Bible and never worried that we’d find it.

I shudder to think what would have happened to the cat if we’d found that starch.

Also, the old woman was shrewd. Except for choosing in favor of dessert and against doing dishes, I was never a decisive child. She knew that if it came to sorting cotton blends from washable wool, I’d just give up and stay home and she’d be stuck when me forever.

Why not let dirty clothes be a little secret lurking just around the coin-operated laundry?

And drycleaning just a mess that you clean up without a mop.

Smart woman.