This is a rather long preamble, but I feel the need to explain how I ended up at a pole dancing class last Friday. Alright….now you’re reading!
My friend Ian from work was bartending at the Black Fin on the east side Friday night. The Black Fin not only had a crazy happy hour, but if you handed $25 to the lovely lady at the door, she would give you a wrist band that would allow you to drink as much as you could until 10:00. Some people from work were planning on taking the challenge, and I was going to join them. My plan however, was that before the evening out, I was going to take a dance class in SOHO. I knew this woman Denise would be there (as she was every Friday night) and I wanted to “accidently” run into her and invite her to the Black Fin. This is certainly not as gay as it sounds (and this is a subject for future blogging – how can you make female friends without feeling like you’re coming onto them? I haven’t figured it out. Ask them for their number? Say you enjoy “hanging out with them”? Gay gay gay….)
I met Denise at an Equinox audition a few weeks back and we quickly hit it off. She was hilarious, full of energy, and we exchanged e-mails. We wrote back in forth and ran into each other at the gym a few times since, and I knew we could be friends in a more social – less “let’s –get-our-sweat-on“ environment. Friday night was my in. Alas, it was not meant to be.
Rubin, my dog walker, called me Friday morning and said he would not be able to walk Taetu. He had a last minute graduation (what graduation is last minute? I have no idea), and wouldn’t be able to come.
No fear. I was used to swinging home to take the dog out before going out myself. I did have to change the location of my dance class, however, so I looked up the schedule of my neighborhood gym and found a pole dancing class at 7:00. An hour there, and I could still head downtown to meet up with everyone and get my drink on…plus I would be armed with stories from pole dancing! I was in.
So this is how I ended up at my very first pole dancing class. Here’s what I thought. I thought it would be like the time I took “strip tease” in Seattle. It would be a sexy hip hop class where people thought they were being “edgy”, but really were just getting their heart rate up. Oh my God how wrong I was.
I showed up in my black pants and tank top thinking I looked pretty good. My hair was down, my pants were hip huggers…I felt sexy…I felt sexy that is until I stepped in the classroom and saw 19 other women in their underwear. “She’s exaggerating,” you’re probably thinking. “They were merely scantily clad.” Nooo…..they were in their underwear. Bra and panties. The variations ran from modest (boy short panties and sports bra) to not-so-modest (push-up bra and thong). The lights were dim and I wear glasses so at first I thought I was seeing things, but no…this was a Victoria’s Secret catalogue come to life.
I took the lead from others in the class and grabbed a mat. I started to stretch already dreading what was to come. The instructor entered. He (not a type-o…the only man in the room) wore a Crunch tank-top and tight shorts that left little to the imagination. “Okay,” he said to the class, “we’re going to warm up for about 20 minutes and then we’ll get started. Just follow me.”
He didn’t have a mic and didn’t really cue. Instead he would gyrate and grind on the floor and we would attempt to follow. I tried not to look to my right or left and concentrate on following the instructor. I soon realized this was kind of loose class. You didn’t have to do exactly what he was doing, and instead could “improvise” as you saw fit. I was not having it. There would be no improvising from this one. This was a gym for God’s Sake!
After the 20 minutes, he told everyone to stand by a pole. The problem was, there were 9 poles and 21 women. We were going to have to share. I was mortified. It was bad enough to be the “slow learner” in the corner by myself, but to have two other more experienced dancers wait for me to finish before they could take their turn. This all made it much, much worse. After our fearless leader instructed us to head to a pole, several of the women broke out their shoes. Oh yes…it was not bad enough they had floss up their rear, they now had on 7” platform shoes. This was getting ridiculous…(and why wasn’t every heterosexual man in Manhattan at this gym? I still haven’t figured that one out).
Our instructor stood in front of the room and demonstrated the first routine. There were 4-5 moves in quick succession. He showed us once, asked if we all got it, and I was the only one who didn’t enthusiastically nod my head. This was going to be trouble.
The first woman in our group went and she totally got it. She spun around the pole, circling her pelvis and whipping her long, blonde hair, and somehow ended up on the floor on all fours. She practiced a couple times and turned to me, smiling sweetly, “do you want to give it a try?” I think at that point I actually gulped. There was nothing I wanted to do less than give it a try, but I placed my hand on the pole and started to spin around.
I did not hide the fact that this was my first pole dancing class, so the instructor came by frequently. After the first routine, we were onto more advanced moves – climbing the pole to the ceiling. Okay – at this point I will give both of my readers a little “word to the wise.” You cannot climb a stripper pole in pants. It can’t be done. Obviously, this was my first pole class. Everyone in the room knew that when I showed up in my hip-huggers. When we started climbing…I had to remove my pants. I didn’t feel as self-conscious as you would think. I actually felt more out of place fully dressed…like wearing a turtleneck in a sauna.
So now I was in a tank top and my (thankfully clean, black, and modestly sexy) panties and ready to climb the pole. While the object was to “fan kick” our way up to the top, I simply grabbed the pole with both hands and muscled my way up. It was not the sexiest move, but everyone in my group was impressed. “You have great muscles,” one of the women said, “what do you do to workout?”
“Obviously, not pole dancing,” was my reply.
The instructor was, simply put, amazing. Every time he demonstrated our next routine, I would watch him with my jaw dropped. He had the grace, pose, and pure strength that made the most gravity-defying moves look effortless. The women in the class followed suit. Dressed in their prettiest panties and highest of heels, they swung, leapt, and twirled around the pole with grace. After an hour, I was ready to high tale it to the closest stiff cocktail.
The class lasted 90 minutes…..nine….zero….and the grand finale was a chance for us to “improve” on the pole for three minutes. Yay! What a treat! I was trying to figure out how to get out of there, and watching the Black Fin slip through my fingers, when I tried my hardest to dance “sexy” around the pole to an old Bon Jovi song. Really? Bon Jovi? Between my awkwardness and the smooth sounds of aging New Jersey rock stars, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
After our final stretch and mingling around to say goodbye to my gracious (and patient) partners, I was out of the gym at close to 9:00. There was no way I could change, grab the 2, and get down to the Black Fin in time to meet my co-workers. I ended up calling it a night and having a glass of wine with Taetu. To be honest, embarrassing myself on a pole for an hour and half with 20 nearly naked women was enough excitement for one evening. I was ready to hang low…and vowed never to return.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The Outsiders Part Duex
This past weekend, I took a group of 15 high school students around New York. They were members of the official travel club in Oak Harbor, WA – a small navy community in the Orcas Islands. Oak Harbor is so small when they say they’re “going to the city,” they mean Burlington, because it has a Target AND a Costco.
None of the kids had been to New York and one had only been as far as Seattle – 90 miles south on the I-5. They arrived when I was still in Jacksonville. I had given Ryan, my friend and their teacher, explicit instructions upon arrival: Head to 9th and go north to find a restaurant. If you don’t see anything by 46th, turn there for what’s called “restaurant row.” There are no less than 200 options in this six-block jaunt, but alas, she did not follow these instructions. Instead, they ended up drawn to the lights of Times Square like little pubescent moths, and paid $35 for a TGIFridays’ hamburger. Their first impression of New York was one of expense and tacky glitz.
The following day they took in not one, but two museums and the Empire States Building. Needless to say, most of this time was spent standing in line or walking – both activities equally exhausting in a group of 18. That night, they ate at McDonalds, but reported back to me that the servers were rude and got most of their orders wrong. Welcome to New York! You can eat overpriced food at chain restaurants and hang out with other tourists in long lines! It’s awesome here. Really.
When I met up with the group Thursday morning, they were all interested in shopping and shopping and more shopping in New York. They were thrilled I was there to show them the “insiders perspective”, albeit only eight-weeks in the making, and I was going to do my best to get them to fall in love with the city.
The first day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and worked our way toward Battery Park. We took in Tammany Hall, the Woolworth Building, Ground Zero and Wall Street before arriving at the park. It was a beautiful spring day with ample sunshine so the walk was lengthy, but we made frequent stops and it was great to be outside. Once at Battery, the plan was to hop a ferry to see the Statue of Liberty, but we were waylaid by some street performers and missed the last boat. We decided to postpone the ferry ride to the following morning and made our way back to the hotel for a much needed rest. That night the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The following day, I picked them up after their trip to Ms. Liberty, the “welcome mat” of the free world and we went to Little Italy for some famous pizza at Lombardi’s. After lunch, we headed over to Canal where I taught the ladies how to shop for knock-offs. We let them have two hours of free time and when their time was up, they asked for two more. They loved Canal street. It was hectic, loud, with shoulder-to-shoulder people, but they couldn’t get enough. That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The next day we rented bikes and rode around Central Park. It was a nice ride (another beautiful day) and the park was in full bloom. The kids, true to form, all went at different speeds, so it was difficult to keep track of everyone. After the ride, we had an hour of free time and dispersed in the afternoon to get Broadway tickets (me) and go to MOMA (everyone else). That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop, but that’s not what we did. We went to see In the Heights, a wonderful original musical that won the Tony a couple years ago. The kids’ response: “the chairs were uncomfortable.” Hmmm…well, maybe Broadway isn’t for everyone.
This group of kids were some of the nicest I’ve ever met. Granted, I don’t hang out with a lot of high school students, but I always anticipate a lot of teen angst and drama and eye rolling and a whole pile of hormones. These kids were mature, they got along, they followed instructions, and they were pleasant. It was like I was hanging out with the fictional characters from Saved by the Bell. There wasn’t a sarcastic comment or huff to be had the entire trip. They were remarkable.
The challenges came in, well, in doing anything. There was always someone who had to go to the bathroom. Always. And there was always someone who was hungry. Someone who wanted to stop and check something out. Someone who wished we were doing something different. Someone who wanted to stay somewhere longer and someone else who wanted to leave sooner. There was always someone who forgot something at the hotel– often important things like tickets or subway cards. Going six blocks took an average of 45 minutes. The way I move through the city, this pace was a tad frustrating.
At the end of the trip, I was sad at their impression of New York. I wanted to show them the city I love, and ended up showing them the city I avoid. I never go to Times Square or Canal street or Battery Park or the museums. Those places are stressful and crowded and expensive and overcome with tourists.
The last day, the group had three hours of free time. I grabbed Ryan by the hand and hopped the first subway to Union Square. We had a leisurely brunch on the plaza and meandered around the artists, discussing their work. It was sunny, it wasn’t crowded, it was perfect. “Now,” she said on our way back to the hotel, “I see why you love it here.”
I imagine a similar situation for a lot of visitors. There are so many things on the check list, it’s hard to see a New Yorkers New York your first trip here. People visit New York to see the legend from pop culture. They want to eat Breakfast at Tiffany’s and head to the Empire States Building where Tom Hanks first fell in love with Meg Ryan. This New York as you would expect, is one of complete fiction. The true soul of New York is found beneath the iconoclasts. It’s in the Italian stylist in the neighborhood or the kind gesture of a young man giving up his seat for a pregnant woman on the subway. It’s in neighborhoods not monuments. You just have to visit more than once to understand what that side of New York is all about. My fear is that after their experience of mass crowds and overpriced burgers, this group of high school kids may not want to return. But I hope I’m wrong. Incidentally, their favorite part of the trip? The street entertainers in Battery Park. That’s the thing about this city. The real jewels are found in unplanned moments. Hopefully this group will return to experience and enjoy the wonder of spontaneity that makes this city so fantastic. I think they will.
None of the kids had been to New York and one had only been as far as Seattle – 90 miles south on the I-5. They arrived when I was still in Jacksonville. I had given Ryan, my friend and their teacher, explicit instructions upon arrival: Head to 9th and go north to find a restaurant. If you don’t see anything by 46th, turn there for what’s called “restaurant row.” There are no less than 200 options in this six-block jaunt, but alas, she did not follow these instructions. Instead, they ended up drawn to the lights of Times Square like little pubescent moths, and paid $35 for a TGIFridays’ hamburger. Their first impression of New York was one of expense and tacky glitz.
The following day they took in not one, but two museums and the Empire States Building. Needless to say, most of this time was spent standing in line or walking – both activities equally exhausting in a group of 18. That night, they ate at McDonalds, but reported back to me that the servers were rude and got most of their orders wrong. Welcome to New York! You can eat overpriced food at chain restaurants and hang out with other tourists in long lines! It’s awesome here. Really.
When I met up with the group Thursday morning, they were all interested in shopping and shopping and more shopping in New York. They were thrilled I was there to show them the “insiders perspective”, albeit only eight-weeks in the making, and I was going to do my best to get them to fall in love with the city.
The first day, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and worked our way toward Battery Park. We took in Tammany Hall, the Woolworth Building, Ground Zero and Wall Street before arriving at the park. It was a beautiful spring day with ample sunshine so the walk was lengthy, but we made frequent stops and it was great to be outside. Once at Battery, the plan was to hop a ferry to see the Statue of Liberty, but we were waylaid by some street performers and missed the last boat. We decided to postpone the ferry ride to the following morning and made our way back to the hotel for a much needed rest. That night the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The following day, I picked them up after their trip to Ms. Liberty, the “welcome mat” of the free world and we went to Little Italy for some famous pizza at Lombardi’s. After lunch, we headed over to Canal where I taught the ladies how to shop for knock-offs. We let them have two hours of free time and when their time was up, they asked for two more. They loved Canal street. It was hectic, loud, with shoulder-to-shoulder people, but they couldn’t get enough. That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop. So that’s what we did.
The next day we rented bikes and rode around Central Park. It was a nice ride (another beautiful day) and the park was in full bloom. The kids, true to form, all went at different speeds, so it was difficult to keep track of everyone. After the ride, we had an hour of free time and dispersed in the afternoon to get Broadway tickets (me) and go to MOMA (everyone else). That night, the kids wanted to hang out in Times Square and shop, but that’s not what we did. We went to see In the Heights, a wonderful original musical that won the Tony a couple years ago. The kids’ response: “the chairs were uncomfortable.” Hmmm…well, maybe Broadway isn’t for everyone.
This group of kids were some of the nicest I’ve ever met. Granted, I don’t hang out with a lot of high school students, but I always anticipate a lot of teen angst and drama and eye rolling and a whole pile of hormones. These kids were mature, they got along, they followed instructions, and they were pleasant. It was like I was hanging out with the fictional characters from Saved by the Bell. There wasn’t a sarcastic comment or huff to be had the entire trip. They were remarkable.
The challenges came in, well, in doing anything. There was always someone who had to go to the bathroom. Always. And there was always someone who was hungry. Someone who wanted to stop and check something out. Someone who wished we were doing something different. Someone who wanted to stay somewhere longer and someone else who wanted to leave sooner. There was always someone who forgot something at the hotel– often important things like tickets or subway cards. Going six blocks took an average of 45 minutes. The way I move through the city, this pace was a tad frustrating.
At the end of the trip, I was sad at their impression of New York. I wanted to show them the city I love, and ended up showing them the city I avoid. I never go to Times Square or Canal street or Battery Park or the museums. Those places are stressful and crowded and expensive and overcome with tourists.
The last day, the group had three hours of free time. I grabbed Ryan by the hand and hopped the first subway to Union Square. We had a leisurely brunch on the plaza and meandered around the artists, discussing their work. It was sunny, it wasn’t crowded, it was perfect. “Now,” she said on our way back to the hotel, “I see why you love it here.”
I imagine a similar situation for a lot of visitors. There are so many things on the check list, it’s hard to see a New Yorkers New York your first trip here. People visit New York to see the legend from pop culture. They want to eat Breakfast at Tiffany’s and head to the Empire States Building where Tom Hanks first fell in love with Meg Ryan. This New York as you would expect, is one of complete fiction. The true soul of New York is found beneath the iconoclasts. It’s in the Italian stylist in the neighborhood or the kind gesture of a young man giving up his seat for a pregnant woman on the subway. It’s in neighborhoods not monuments. You just have to visit more than once to understand what that side of New York is all about. My fear is that after their experience of mass crowds and overpriced burgers, this group of high school kids may not want to return. But I hope I’m wrong. Incidentally, their favorite part of the trip? The street entertainers in Battery Park. That’s the thing about this city. The real jewels are found in unplanned moments. Hopefully this group will return to experience and enjoy the wonder of spontaneity that makes this city so fantastic. I think they will.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Outsiders
I took my first business trip last week. I joined 11 co-workers and we boarded a plane bound for Jacksonville, Florida. It was a three-day, two-night break from the cold, rainy weather plaguing New York the week prior.
This was my first trip as a “New Yorker,” and it was pretty funny. First of all, New Yorkers where a lot of black. In New York, you don’t really notice, but when you visit somewhere like Florida, where the general population is adorned in various shades of pastel, our look suddenly appears rather somber. We definitely stand out. People probably assumed we were either from New York or on our way to a funeral.
People’s reaction to “New York” is interesting as well. As a group, when a local asked us where we were from, the “New York” came from a representative like a short, staccato gunshot. People would retract immediately, put off from the “big city folk” in their fine town.
“Wheah ah yoah awfices,” they would ask with a smile, the vowels rounded with their southern cadence.
“New Yowak,” would be the reply, big as Manhattan itself. In the city, this would not seem out of place, but out of context it was like taking a bullhorn into a library. As a group our tendency was to intimidate and alienate.
We all took shuttles to the conference center directly from the airport and when the day was done, we had to figure out how to get back to the hotel. We stood in a group, looking at each other for the answer.
“They must have cabs,” Denise said, “let’s just flag one down.”
We waited a while to see the familiar yellow of a taxi service, but nothing turned up.
We started to head over to the city's lone monorail, when Michael suggested that we just walk. That's what he ended up doing. It was a healthy walk, but nothing a typical New Yorker couldn’t handle. New Yorkers are so accustomed to convenient public transportation, they become a bit lost when such a system doesn’t present itself.
When I checked into the hotel, the clerk asked for my office address, since that’s how the reservation was filed. I rattled off “535 5th Ave.”
“5th Avenue,” he said admiringly, “that must be an exciting street to work on!”
I smiled back at him; thrilled that I lived in such an iconic environment. Seeing New York through the local’s eyes made me feel like I lived on a movie set.
We did our best to live up to our reputation as brassy and rude. The second night, we all had dinner in a group and things got loud. In New York, the tendency to crescendo throughout the night is a necessity since wherever you’re enjoying dinner is bound to be crowded and voices naturally raise throughout the evening. In Jacksonville, however, it was just obnoxious.
“I would rather poke out my eyes than live in this hell hole,” someone in our group said in front of the waiter. I wanted to hide under the table.
The three days in Jacksonville were fine. The weather was beautiful, the people were friendly, the air was undoubtedly cleaner, but after the 72nd hour I was anxious to get back to feeling good in my black attire, talking a little louder, and returning to the faster pace of Manhattan. I was anxious to get back home.
This was my first trip as a “New Yorker,” and it was pretty funny. First of all, New Yorkers where a lot of black. In New York, you don’t really notice, but when you visit somewhere like Florida, where the general population is adorned in various shades of pastel, our look suddenly appears rather somber. We definitely stand out. People probably assumed we were either from New York or on our way to a funeral.
People’s reaction to “New York” is interesting as well. As a group, when a local asked us where we were from, the “New York” came from a representative like a short, staccato gunshot. People would retract immediately, put off from the “big city folk” in their fine town.
“Wheah ah yoah awfices,” they would ask with a smile, the vowels rounded with their southern cadence.
“New Yowak,” would be the reply, big as Manhattan itself. In the city, this would not seem out of place, but out of context it was like taking a bullhorn into a library. As a group our tendency was to intimidate and alienate.
We all took shuttles to the conference center directly from the airport and when the day was done, we had to figure out how to get back to the hotel. We stood in a group, looking at each other for the answer.
“They must have cabs,” Denise said, “let’s just flag one down.”
We waited a while to see the familiar yellow of a taxi service, but nothing turned up.
We started to head over to the city's lone monorail, when Michael suggested that we just walk. That's what he ended up doing. It was a healthy walk, but nothing a typical New Yorker couldn’t handle. New Yorkers are so accustomed to convenient public transportation, they become a bit lost when such a system doesn’t present itself.
When I checked into the hotel, the clerk asked for my office address, since that’s how the reservation was filed. I rattled off “535 5th Ave.”
“5th Avenue,” he said admiringly, “that must be an exciting street to work on!”
I smiled back at him; thrilled that I lived in such an iconic environment. Seeing New York through the local’s eyes made me feel like I lived on a movie set.
We did our best to live up to our reputation as brassy and rude. The second night, we all had dinner in a group and things got loud. In New York, the tendency to crescendo throughout the night is a necessity since wherever you’re enjoying dinner is bound to be crowded and voices naturally raise throughout the evening. In Jacksonville, however, it was just obnoxious.
“I would rather poke out my eyes than live in this hell hole,” someone in our group said in front of the waiter. I wanted to hide under the table.
The three days in Jacksonville were fine. The weather was beautiful, the people were friendly, the air was undoubtedly cleaner, but after the 72nd hour I was anxious to get back to feeling good in my black attire, talking a little louder, and returning to the faster pace of Manhattan. I was anxious to get back home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)