Pole Position

Last week my beloved pole dancing class didn’t quite go to plan.

In fact, my pole dancing class resulted in me sobbing hysterically, unelegantly, in the office at the end of my lesson. Not slick, not smooth, and most definitely not sexy.

So there was I, attempting all manner of moves that I was failing spectacularly to do, looking rather like a monkey, but generally enjoying myself, my sister giving me tips in between laughing hysterically at my endeavours.

And then, as I attempted a climbing spin with about as much enthusiasm and style as a hyperactive clumsy child (making up for in persistence what I lost dramatically in form), Ms Harry Potter, from the next pole along no less, piped up and told me that what I had done looked ‘awkward, not right, wrong’ and all manner of other negative words for an uncomfortable length of time, all with disapproving undertones. She then ordered me, not exactly encouragingly, to do it again, presumably so she could pinpoint exactly what I was doing so badly just to make sure.

I stared at her, still hanging a reasonable distance up the pole at this point, mouth wide open in disbelief. My lack of response finally forced her to say ‘maybe its me’ without any hint or conviction, and actually rather a lot of ‘well if you want to look like a dick that’s fine by me’ peppering her Welsh drawl.

Until that point I had thought, genuinely, that all Welsh people were nice, purely because I didn’t think you could really say anything nasty in such a peculiar sing song accent that I have only ever really heard spouted in exaggerated tones by supporting cast members in children’s animation programmes.

I slid down the pole and collapsed in a heap of failure.

My sister asked me why I resembled the undead, having not heard the comments, and I whispered what I could. She shot Miss Potter an Oscar winning glare that only my sister can muster within a heartbeat, pierced with so much venom to fell an entire army.

In our class there is an unspoken etiquette. I have never attended a class that is as supportive as this. I have never attended a class where people clap your endeavours when you achieve something with a wisp of impressiveness. I have never attended a class where everybody knows each other, where everybody chats and laughs.

We are two to a pole, the only comments that we receive that aren’t positive are from our partners, who load their suggestions with so much constructiveness that you’d barely be aware that you’d actually done something wrong.

Our teachers are patient, kind, supportive.

It is the most I have enjoyed any exercise, ever, without any shadow of a doubt.

No partner of mine or teacher has ever, ever thrown so much as a negative comment for me to know how to fend off, let alone someone on another pole.

And don’t even get me started on the fact that she’s only been coming for three weeks and already appears to be gunning for Ms Pole Dancer of the Year, and frustratingly, unfairly seems to be in with a chance (however our teachers don’t appear to be quite as attentive to her talent as those at Hogwarts, although I have heard rather too many disturbing ‘excellent’, ‘perfect’ and ‘faultless’ comments from her direction).

I attempted to discard my shock and disappointment, refusing to have my enjoyment ripped away from me in the early stages of my class. But it had crawled under my skin, slipped effortlessly into my bloodstream and was now circulating swiftly around my muscles, wrapping itself around my concentration, constricting my movement, hampering my thoughts.

Of course, I should have waved away her comment, it should have slid off of me, I should have forced my annoyance and hurt into anger and productivity, instead of letting it manifest itself as worry, concern, failure.

This was something I was doing for fun and however much I’d like to think between the time that I am not actually pole dancing that I might be one day quite talented, that quickly evaporates when I am once again climbing like a baboon, with out turned feet and attempting chicken headed body waves and I just enjoy it.

By the time I was attempting to invert – that’s going upside down to Non Poley People - (having just watched Miss Potter effortlessly create the move for the first time), my thought process had divorced my muscle control and wanted nothing more to do with it while it tended its injured wounds, while my muscles were playing a similar game and had ordered a strike of anything mildly productive.

I tried, I tried, I tried. And failed. Again and again.

My sister, bless her patient soul, even helped me wrap my legs around the pole when they got anywhere vaguely close, but it was all in vain. My tears had broken their banks and I was turning into a snotty, crying five year old, abandoned amidst lots of gyrating, pole climbing ladies dancing to Addicted To Love.

The lesson ended and, while I had tried to hide my embarrassing outburst from everyone within the class, my teacher had noticed and coaxed me into her office where my face crumpled and I collapsed into a heap of tears and apologies.

They were wonderful, understanding and supportive. I left the class, feeling fragile, weak, in dire need of some alcohol and relieved the ordeal was over. On the drive home, humiliation, worry and embarrassment at my response seeped in and took over the place of my retracting tears.

My sister and Amy heaped gracious amounts of support on me in the coming days. I had held off saying anything too spiteful about Miss Potter’s achievements and natural talent until this point but she had given us all a ticket to the land of bitchiness and I was planning to exploit it as much as possible given the current circumstances. It had presented itself to me that she perhaps wasn’t the most perfect person on earth after all. And I was deciding to feel quite chuffed about that.
I had noticed during the lesson, when she had been partnered with another girl, much to her inward disgust I imagine as she usually attempts to martyr herself in having a pole on her own (despite this being the holy grail of the dance class), she looked disinterested between her turns, not encouraging her partner, not even looking at her partner most of the time, waiting until she could create her effortless magic on the pole.

She had lost the friendship of three co-polers swiftly and I imagined with that sort of behaviour she’d be losing others fast.

Saturday comes and myself and Amy attend a masterclass in the art of being sexy, stripping, lap dancing and all other things sluttiness in preparation for Valentines Day (when I will in fact be 3 feet under surrounded by plasters and pubic hairs in the swimming pool, and my boyfriend will be asleep in the car). If anything can inject a little bit of confidence into my self conscious, shy frame its this.

And it does. Our teacher, ex-lap dancer, ex-pole dancer, ex-stripper extraordinaire takes a cross section of women in a bizarre array of attire (I had opted for my usual gym clothes, one voluptuous lady had turned up ready to attack the art of stripping clothed in a silk dressing gown, stockings, high heels and fishnet gloves) and teaches us how to be sexy.

I cannot thank her enough. I am going to this week’s class a renewed woman.

A new hair cut, that I have not yet bonded with but at least it is an improvement on my previous hair style that harked back to being twelve years old, only without the fringe, when one or two of my closest friends had nick-named it a lion’s mane due to its unmanageable thickness and general unattractiveness. The ability to at least understand the concept behind the art of being sexy (for now I understand that it is an art and one that I can obtain a qualification in through, for the most part, standing tall, not sticking my feet out like a duck and not pulling stupid faces). And the sheer determination that circles around me since my spectacular failure last week.

I have even bought a DVD on the moves and am planning to erect a pole as soon as we move in to our new house (a sore subject and one I have yet to have the energy to blog about) so that my sister, Amy and myself can become Polers Supreme, all with a G&T in the wings.

I am nervous about this Thursday’s class. I am nervous I will fail myself by collapsing under her presence, about giving in, but I refuse.

It is a great shame that she has affected something I enjoy with such force, but a lot of that is what I have allowed her to do.