Musings From a Pole
My Alter-Ego, Kitty, Learns all the Right Moves

Ok, I admit it. I have a stripper name. And, no, it isn’t “Sugar Mama.” (I’ve learned that a stripper should NEVER have the word “mom,” “mama” or “mother” in her name, because, well, that’s just…ick.)

Instead, my stripper name is “Kitty,” which departs from the “use-your-pet’s-name-as-your-first-and-the-street-you-grew-up-on-as-your-last” stripper name rule. But my cat’s name is “Goody” (as in two-shoes). Plus, I grew up on a street named Jordan, and aren’t there, like, wars there?

Why this is even relevant is because I agreed to take a pole dancing class a while ago, and adopting an alias seemed like the right thing to do. So on a balmy Thursday night, I, Kitty, headed out to OC Pole Fitness in Aliso Viejo, in hopes for an out-of-body—well, more of a “do-I-still-have-a-body?”—experience.

I’d attach a photo, but I can’t move my wrists.

I mean, how did I miss the “fitness” part of this equation? I would never have signed up for the class had I known we would be doing anything other than straddling a chair and squirting honey to “You Can Leave Your Hat On” by Joe Cocker.

Boy, was I off. Pole dancers (you should be forewarned that “strippers” is considered a derogatory term—especially when half of the women in the class are lawyers or dermatologists, simply doing this for fun on a Thursday night) are hard workers. And they can count really high. Like to TWO HUNDRED sit-ups. After ONE HUNDRED leg lifts. ON EACH SIDE.

But it wasn’t all bad, I guess. In fact, some of the floor moves were pretty cool. Like the “Diva”—a kind of cat-like crawling thing—which I should have nailed, considering my “Kitty” alias.

But I didn’t.

Or the “Big Hair,” which, when done right—or flipped right—can make you look like you have big hair even if you don’t. (I don’t.)

But the pole stuff—when we finally got there—was my favorite by far. In fact…just between us? I’m a natural.

I mean, I wrapped one leg and another arm around that pole and whisked around like a butterfly mid-flight—I was that graceful. And despite the beached seal-like screeching of my thighs around the pole (couldn’t they have turned the music up a little louder to drown me out?) you would have thought I was a pro.

Except, maybe, for the dismount.

“Want to try one more time, Kitty?” Collette, our instructor, gently suggested as she graciously—and using both, highly defined arms—tried to unwrap me from the heap I had made of myself at the base of the pole.

“What do you mean, wasn’t that perfect?” I asked. “I mean…laaadies? Did I nail that or what? Yeowza!” (Others jumped in to help too, seeing that my ankles were dangerously intertwined.)

Had I simply thrown down a “Diva” or a “Big Hair” on that final twirl-to-the-ground, they would have been asking me for pointers, I swear. Because Kitty was in ‘da house that night!!!
But she was nowhere to be found the next morning, unfortunately, when I COULD NOT MOVE A MUSCLE. Not even to laugh at myself. Ow, ow, ow…. I still can’t.

But I do plan to use my new skills in the New Year. Or as soon as the Advil kicks in. Especially since I was told by my fellow pole classmate, “Jennifer,” (not a very creative alias, if you ask me) that there’s a street sign in front of a restaurant right by my house that makes an excellent “twirl” pole.

“A sure-fire date pleaser!” she assured me.

(We’ll see how pleased my husband is the next time he takes me out for a $200 Italian dinner only to get karate-chopped in the groin.)

But kidding aside, I’m really glad I did it. Because, doggone it, there is a “mom” in my name, and whether I’m stripping my kids’ gum off the seat of my pants, or peeling off yesterday’s sweatshirt for my comatose husband, this kitty cat’s still got it. And I‘ve got a pole to prove it.
Or, at least, several pulled muscles.

When the instructor, Collette, called me a few days later to make sure I had healed properly, I apologized profusely for disrupting her bevy of very talented babes.

You know what she said to me?

“Sugar Mama,” (just couldn’t get “Kitty” to stick) she says to me. “Don’t you ever apologize for being sexy.”

And for one beautiful moment, my stretch marks melted away, cellulite vanished, and my wrinkles? Gone.

Pole dancing isn’t about being someone else, I learned that night. It’s about being you, just fourteen feet off the ground. And just as you would with anyone else you cherish dearly…hold on tight and don’t ever let go.