I didn't mean to become a pole dancer. Really I didn't.
But it sort of accidentally happened. Sort of. And I've got the photos to prove it.
Mimi Pencil Skirt.
OK OK! I'll admit! Stop harassing me. I'll tell ya already!
There must be some underlying psychological underpinnings at work mysteriously pulling my underpinnings toward this new curiosity. Gravity? Horizontal boredom? A subconscious desire to lower my blog rating? Too much alone time on Saturday nights?
But before I show you the picture let me 'splain what I was doing. Would you believe I was taking chicken soup to a sick neighbor? Teaching Braille to a blind person? Communing with nature? On a quest to find the family of deer in my backyard?
You're not buying it are ya? You know me too well. OK. I'll 'fess up.
I needed new pictures for a project I'm doing....ahem...and went frolicking in the woods behind Bloggingham Palace to capture the afternoon sun. It was then I discovered the majestic vertically shaped beautifully covered with little green flowery-thingies mammoth bark-lined oak tree ...er.....pole.
It just screamed testosterone. It was perfect!
I'll just practice on it a while. Nobody can see me. I'm all alone in the forest. Not a person around for miles.Remember how you used to kiss your mirror when you were twelve? Sometimes the wall would do in a pinch.
I practiced on trees.
I've never seen a live pole dance. I've never done a live pole dance. Until today.
Which got me thinking. What IS a pole dance EXACTLY and why would somebody want to do one? So I did what any self-respecting pencil skirt would do.
I investigated the subject thoroughly. Researched. Well, as best I could after shedding thirty years of Thou-shalt-nots from my psyche first. Turned the PG filter off my google search and typed in - gulp - pole dance. Oh the sights I saw. And the sites!
Did you know that pole dancing sometimes involves gymnastics? What luck. I used to be a very very amateurish and bad gymnast in my day I'll tell ya....not because of my enormous flexibility and talent, but because I weighed 85 lbs soaking wet while I was in high school. Why, I could hang for an hour from the horizontal bar without falling. Sometimes I'd fall asleep. People would feed me lunch. I'd just hang around. It was amazing!
All I need, according to Wikipedia, is a little muscular endurance, coordination and sensuality. I can do THAT. Then I can cross it off the "To Do Before I Die" list.
I was inspired! And prepared to complete my mission.
So I decided to experiment with all the poles....uh...trees.... in the forest - and find just the right one on which to gyrate. Why go to all the embarrassment of disguising myself in a nightclub when all I have to do is waltz into the privacy of my own backyard? It's so comforting to know that no one will ever find out about this sordid little experiment.
Sometimes a girl's gotta kiss a lot of trees before she finds the one who wood be right for her.
Here I am in my first gymnastics pretzel twist. I ground my heels into the pile of red berried leaves under my sneakers and shook my....well, my tree. On the tree. I think that's what you're supposed to do.
Around the tree. Snapping photos. 1-2-3-4-5-6 -7-8-9-10 Flash! Wow. This is easy, I thought. What fun! What's the big deal about dancing on a pole? Anybody can do it.
I sat down.
In the leaves.
You see, I was sooooo proud of myself. Feeling good. Home from work early. Not a care in the world. Perfect lighting. Scandalous thoughts in my head to make me smile so big. Great afternoon. Went for a nice long walk too, taking pictures of trees, Mimi in the trees, and Mimi-less trees. Smiling oaks. Withering willows. Slimy moss and crackling timber under my nearly naked feet. I sensually sat on the slippery sides of granite and smoothly lined leaves nestled just right for a nice roll in the proverbial forest. Greenery. Logs. Frogs. Rocks. I felt so earthy.
And poles. Don't forget the poles. I still shiver thinking about those poles.
That is.....until I began to itch.
Flashback: 1972. Seventh grade science class. Botany. Trees. Leaves.
Science. Botulism. Botox. WhatEVER. Who the blog knows?! I wasn't paying attention.
Tommy Snider sat across from me
and I was hoping to move him before the teacher moved him. No such luck. He ended up sitting across from Susan during the hot steamy reproductive health chapter and I got stuck with a boy who could not pronounce my name and had never been kissed. How do I know? Never mind. Just take my word for it. (What is this blasted itching?!)
But I digress.
As I was saying.....
Flashback to the 7th grade Science: Susan is history. I turned her in for cheating and her mother sent her to a Catholic school. Tommy threw gum in my hair and other tantalizing teases. Mrs. Watson was on chapter five, page 41 "Testosterone and What It Means To You"
I loved that chapter.
I fell in love with science. And Tommy. I wrote an essay called "Testosterone Is My Friend." Mrs. Watson loved it. She must have read that paper twenty times. Every time I passed by her desk she had her four-eyes glued to my adolescent erotica.
Go on.....ask me anything, anything at all about the male hormone known as testosterone. It protects me from all things evil and itchy, all things wild and woolly, all things puritanical. It is a wonder drug.
Mrs. Watson said it had magical powers that could cure all diseases and even eradicate blond moments. I wasn't blond but that didn't matter. It enhances libido, energy, immune function, and protects against osteoporosis. I knew I needed some.
Some things never change.
So I searched for some in the forest today.
Flashback 7th grade Science: "Mimi Pencil Skirt!" Miiiiiii....mmii....(3 sharp raps with a ruler on my thumb) Mimi! Pay attention! Can you name one - just one - characteristic of poison ivy?"
"Yes, Mrs. Watson (as I googley-smooched with Tommy Snider), "they have big blue eyes and shiny leaves and long eyelashes about 1 inch in length with red berries sometimes and... and.....they make me break out in a cold cold sweat......I mean hives, Mrs. Watson, hives." "Mimi??" she said with a I-can't-believe-that-girl look, "move to the back of the class, dear. You're entirely too distracted where you sit. Now move!"
I was limber. Footloose. Aggressive. Blushing and ankle bare.
He was husky. Manly. In need of a shave.
Notice the bite in his bark.
Notice the curve of the muscle.....
Notice the strength of the spine...
I'm calling Mrs. Watson! She never told me that testosterone makes you itch.
I think I must have been absent that day.