I was watching the Rock of Love Bus Tour the other day and feeling prettay, prettay good about myself, I must say. Unlike the hot messes fighting to add yet another STD to their medical history by becoming the next Mrs. Brett Michaels (who's missing the top half of his head as far as I can tell), I have never stripped on national television, inflated my boobs to surpass the size of my head, or stuck a shot glass anywhere other than my mouth. Not too shabby. Afterwards, as I headed out for my first pole dancing class, the irony was not lost on me.
I'm always up to try something new, especially when it comes fitness, as during the winter in Boston, my only form of exercise comes from hopping from one foot to another trying to keep warm while waiting for some form of transportation to get me to wherever it is I'm trying to go. Usually to the bar across the street, but every once in a while, I make an appearance at work.
I'd convinced a good friend of mine to join me, mostly so no one would think I was considering it as a career choice, although I'm guessing there probably aren't too many 30-year-olds just starting out in the biz. Although with the way this recession is going, you never know. It may only be a matter of time before we see "girls" greasing up the pole with Tiger Balm.
Understandably, some of my friends were a bit confused when I told them what I was up to. One even wrote, "What is pole dancing? Is that like some European traditional dance or something?" Of course, I'm guessing this was simply a ruse to get me to demonstrate my new moves, but I'm not falling for it. There's an old saying in Tennessee – I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee – that says, fool me once, shame on – shame on you. Fool me – you can't get fooled again, as George W would say.
I picked the worst pole in the bunch--the one front and center that I had to keep jumping off of to share with the instructor. I'm hoping to claim another pole for next class, which will probably be considered bad pseudo stripper form. I might actually get into the first fake stripper catfight ever to go down to my knowledge. Watch out Brett Michaels, you sexy bandanna-wearing, guy-liner loving mimbo, I am hopping off the 441 and on to your bus of love that I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to get all my shots to ride. Rock on.