The pole is your friend.

My friend Kate A. is turning 29. As such, my friend Erin wanted to do something a little bit different to celebrate the occasion. But "different" can mean a lot of things. The possibilities are endless. What is one to choose?

To provide a little bit of a back story, Kate A. is, in a word, composed. She has impeccable manners, dons the cutest J. Crew clothes and is a rather important college administrator despite her young age.

Composed. Cute. Responsible. Reserved. Now, off the top of your head, what seems like the most appropriate way to celebrate this young lady's birth? Well...isn't it obvious?

We took pole-dancing lessons.

Yeah, not kidding.

Gypsy Rose is a dance studio in Boston on Boylston St. whose mission, according to their website, is, "to let ALL WOMEN, REGARDLESS OF SIZE, SHAPE, AGE, or LEVEL OF COORDINATION experience the FUN, GLAMOROUS, yet DARING side of Exotic Dancing without all the BS of a real strip club!" Check it out here: http://www.gypsyrosedancing.com/

Whoa, whoa, whoa. And this is where I feel the need to set a little bit of a disclaimer--we (the two Kates, Erin and I) simply wanted to see what all the fuss was about. None of us have experience in exotic dancing nor do we have any interest in attaining any. But the thought of learning something completely outside the realm of our normal everyday experience was, at the very least, interesting. Plus, as a writer I am always trying to be open to new things. New things keep the creative juices flowing. And when the juices are flowing, the writing comes much easier.

That and, let's be honest, I wanted to know if I could actually hold my own and physically get up on the pole. I am competitive in this respect, given my fierce workouts as of late. When it comes down to it I am an athlete and, whether it is apparent or not, this experience was a 'game' I really wanted to win. The competition? To bring sexy back and do it in spades.

So last night we took the plunge. The studio was a private room that had poles (4) and mirrors, soft lighting and lots of room to move. I got there late (my drive from NJ, riddled with rain and traffic due to accidents, was a hellish 7 hours). So I arrived exhausted and looking, since I had run there in the rain, a bit like a drowned rat. I also had this nagging feeling that I had missed some critical pep talk that my friends had been privy to, one that was peppered with phrases like, "you're sexy no matter what" and "just have fun with it".

Rain-soaked and pep talk-deprived, I hardly felt sexy. But I soldiered on.

Our instructor, Trinity, who was dressed like a sexy referee immediately made me feel welcome. I was too late for the floor dancing part of the evening but was right on time for the actual pole dancing instruction. Clutch.

She explained where to put my hands and how to swing my body so that I could actually get up on the pole and swing around.

"More than anything," she stressed, "the pole is your friend."

Really? This remained to be seen. My friends were convinced that I would do well because my body is about 3/4 leg.

I took my first attempt and could not for the life of me just let my body swing around the pole. This despite more than twelve years of formal dance instruction. So if the method was supposed to go 'step, step and fly', my actual execution was more like 'step, step and...step again' while my cheeks became red from embarrassment. My clutch was too tight, my body (usually flexible and strong) suddenly felt awkward and way too large. Sheepish is a word that comes to mind. I was not trusting my inner sex kitten. And the pole was most definitely not my friend.

Then disaster (almost) struck--the 3-inch platform heels I had slipped on to get myself psyched up suddenly gave way and my ankle popped the slightest bit before I righted myself. The heels were not working. I kicked them off and gave myself a pep talk.

A few more false starts later, I still refused to give up. Then I got mad and instead of worrying about falling, just threw myself into it. Before I knew it, I had taken a trip, albeit short, around the pole. Mission accomplished! My legs were bruised and my wrists felt strained but I had done it. So I did it a few more times and through the process discovered the following: the less I thought about it, the looser I held on and the more I trusted that I would know what to do, the easier it was. Kind of reminds me of life in a way. Lesson learned.

The evening ended with instruction on chair dancing, learning how to pick up a dollar bill with my ass and being given the stage name of "Rain" (lame). Talk about a full night. More than just the formal instruction we gained, though, I also learned the following:
--pole dancing is harder than it looks and is an athletic feat that I know I will never master.
--those girls are working for their cash and dancing for their dollars.
--one is not sexy so much because they intrinsically are but because they believe they are.

Chris Rock once said it is a father's task to, "keep their daughter off the pole." Luckily my Dad has absolutely nothing to worry about in this respect. But for the sake of a fun night out and an experience that probably won't be matched for a while, it was completely worth it.