Two
The Day Before
Pole Kisses Aerial Arts Studio didn’t look like much from the strip-mall parking lot. But inside, the bright space showcased
aerial silks and gleaming hardwoods. The woman behind the front desk wore a faux college sweatshirt that said KALE instead of YALE. For an illogical moment, I felt embarrassed to tell her why I was there.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to bail. I could zip over to the Flying M and experience the impossible luxury of drinking a latte,
uninterrupted. Afterward, I’d go home and lie cheerfully to Emmylou, my seventy-four-year-old duplex neighbor, who’d gifted
me this Intro to Pole Dancing series along with requisite free twin babysitting on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday nights. I
hadn’t had the heart to tell her I’d rather clean a litter box than try to pole dance. And I was expected to go three times
a week!
But I couldn’t even claim to be too busy. Because of a state budget crisis, I’d been furloughed for three weeks from my job
as an assistant manager at the Capitol Grill, a windowless underground café attached to the state capitol building where doodoo
state legislators went for soggy burgers between their efforts to permanently outlaw drag queens, reproductive rights, or
books featuring either of the two.
Besides, Emmylou said, the owner of the pole dancing studio believed frequent classes were necessary to “create a transformation.”
But did I really want to be transformed by an establishment called Pole Kisses? I didn’t worry the classes would be strip-club unsavory. I worried they’d be suburban-mom-feeling-her-strip-club-fantasy unsavory. Which was infinitely worse.
But if I went to a coffee shop, I’d end up watching clips of stand-up comedians on Instagram. Comedians who—unlike me—were
still following their dreams in New York and LA.
Just thinking about it made me hate myself.
“I’m here for Intro to Pole?” I said.
“Pole Virgins.”
“What?”
“We don’t call the series Intro to Pole,” the woman explained. “We call it Pole Virgins. After you complete the series, you’ll
be a Pole Kitten.”
“Meow?” I managed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll explain all about pole names later. I’m Salma,” she said. “Salma Hayek.” Which was surreal given that an
aughts Salma Hayek was her celebrity doppelg?nger. She shepherded me into the “chill room,” where students hung out until
class started. As I stuffed my puffy coat into a cubby, a fellow Pole Virgin popped up beside me.
“Hi! I’m Layna!” she chirped. “My soon-to-be ex-husband is a douchebag. That’s why I’m here. This is my first class!” Her
face was candid and cheerful, her dark hair in a bouncy ponytail. She looked like she was in her late thirties and owned a
label maker and a TJ Maxx/HomeGoods credit card.
“I’m Tilly,” I said. “Tell me more.”
“A couple months after our daughter left for college I found out the douchebag was cheating. Now I’m going through the Big
D. Divorce. So I gotta do something just for me, you know?”
Since my mom died, I’d been trying to pretend I was fine. But this woman clearly had no such impulse.
“I’m so sorry you’re going through it,” I said. “But as my septuagenarian babysitter said right before I left for class, ‘Hopefully
you’ll be body rolling up on a tasty young personal trainer in no time.’” Had I made a joke? How long had it been?
Layna plunked down on the couch and hugged a pillow that read: Bitch, don’t kill my vibe. “Why’d you decide to come?” she asked, as if the decision to take a pole dancing class was as significant as getting a divorce,
running for public office, or having a kid.
“I’ve been told I need a hobby,” I said. “I tried scrapbooking, but it filled me with existential despair.” It was true. All
my scrapbooking stuff was in my trunk, waiting to be dumped at Goodwill.
“I used to scrapbook,” Layna said. “Now I have fifteen perfectly crafted books full of photos of me and my husband and our
daughter at Disney. Only now I don’t want to look at them because the douchebag probably had a threesome with Moana and Jasmine.
So don’t give me that hobby stuff. This is a safe space.”
Friendship begins the moment one person overshares and the other person responds in kind. But I had too much misfortune to
unload in a soundbite.
“I’m here because I’m in a slump,” I said. “I make my kids’ lunches on Sunday night. Ten turkey sandwiches. And I freeze them.
And I send them to lunch with blocks of ice that are probably only half-thawed by lunchtime.” In truth, I’d only sent the
twins to school with freezer sandwiches for a week, and as soon as they grumbled, I put money in the Therapy Jar. (I tossed
a bill in anytime I had a major Mom Fail, so the twins would have a head start on paying for counseling.) But still, the sandwich
anecdote gave a good snapshot of my mental state.
Layna made that little mmmmh sound people make in church or at poetry readings. “Packing school lunches,” she said, “is a goddamn beatdown.”
I realized I liked her. A lot.
“And on that note,” Salma Hayek called from the doorway. She’d shucked her sweatpants to reveal what looked like leopard-print
bikini bottoms. “It’s time for class.”