Intro to Pole

Oh my goodness you crazy people. It is soooooo not what you think. There is no way I could become a firefighter!

Nah, I just started taking some random pole dancing classes in Sugar House to get more in touch with my feminine grrrrrrr... (or girrrl, depending on how you view that.) As if Danny and I didn't learn our lesson from the (primarily) unused copies of Carmen Electra's Strip Tease Aerobics...but this new dance class seemed like a good idea: five lessons, one month to turn me into a raging sex goddess.

The "Groupon" technically came in my Christmas stocking from Santa Clause (dirty old man). Now that I think about it, so did the Carmen Electra DVDs years ago (super dirty old man).

I've got a few friends that have taken the classes. Ok, one friend (Hot Courtney, but she never blogged about it, so I think she may have wanted to keep it a secret... don't tell, ok?) And my sister-in-law swears by the classes. She's a leggy blonde with zero inhibitions (and that's sober).

After Monday night's "Intro to Pole" bit, I've decided I might do better in class if I came with my hair "Victoria Secreted Out," red lipstick and a boob job... either that or a tranquilizer. You've really got to own your feminine wiles in there. I mostly owned a bruise on my inner thigh from mis-shooting a 'spin' (yes, they teach you that your first night!). But I'm sure it will come.

One of my favorite parts of the class is how the instructor kept referring to our ta-ta's as "the sisters." It saddened me that my sisters had relocated south for the winter and had made no indication they were ever coming back.

Danny says it doesn't seem like I liked it. I mean, I did, It's just not what I was expecting. I mean, they literally teach you to dance on a pole. (I know right, like what else would 'pole dancing' be?) But for some reason I wasn't expecting the blatant references to dollar-bill tips and 'only getting hundreds.' Sure I thought the whole bar-dancing thing was tacitly implied, but not blatantly expressed. They're really teaching a skill-set here, people.

It's like a vocational school for exotic body movement (and I'm not talking about the kind with bongo drums and the phrase 'interpretive' they use on So You Think You Can Dance.)

The ridiculous truth is that I think I actually want to be good at this. I don't know what for (I've never been a good dancer). And it's not like I've got a fireman's pole in my house to just practice/show off on. But I get so competitive with things. Like it's a skill I really ought to have in my back pocket? So I can change my facebook bio to something more like this:

Enjoys parenting her adorable and spirited toddler Holden, saving the planet, barefoot running, triathalons*, yoga and pole dancing (not necessarily in that order.)

*PS. Tri went great on Saturday. Details coming soon... mostly when I can figure out how to piece the video footage together. And yes, that makes 2 triathlons in 12 years. I am practically a triathlete - no?

So You Think [I] Can Dance?

WRONG! I am like a limping lama on the jazz floor. . . an ape on Xanax has more coordination than I do. . . in my defense, my dance expertise lies somewhere between a summer at age 10 at the Butler Dance Academy which basically had me in a black leotard and bouncing around to the vibrant and poppy sounds of “WHAM!” (Seriously, did we really not know George Michael was gay?) . . and . . .

Oh, and there were those community ed classes at some Rec center in Chicago . . . but I think the most challenging part of that stint was trying to stuff my chubby little 7 year old thighs into a brown leo-tard. . . (“Tard” being the most descriptive way to describe my dancing career).

So here I am, approaching 30 next month, and my friend Marie gets this idea about us taking an adult dance class. . . It’s “primarily jazz with some lyrical and hip-hop,” she muses over email . I had to consult Websters to find out what the words even meant . . . I mean, I’m familiar with hip-hop but mostly from my days of listening to BoyzIIMen in the 90s. ;)

My friends are amazing dancers . . . even though they haven’t really done it in years, they’re all so coordinated. I tried to muscle my way through the warm ups (soooo thankful I’ve been gaining some flexibility with yoga, because it would have been even more embarrassing.

Their bodies are all flowy and beautiful . . .

I think dance is such a beautiful art form; so expressive and a friggin great workout. . . I seriously got a cramp in my butt-cheeks as we were warming up . . . a lot of pelvic thrusting going on in that classroom (which if I keep up, could come in real handy for my 2nd anniversary). Good thing I’ve got time to plan!!!!

I tried to show Danny what we did in class when I got home; he was “amused” to say the least, but quite supportive. (Class is once a week; 8:30 to 10pm every Thursday if you’re interested).

If we work hard, we get to be in a recital in June . . . I don’t know if I’ll be ready by then . . I’ve got quite a learning curve, and all the other ladies in my class are on the fast-track with their muscle-memory; but I plan on watching “Girls just Wanna have Fun” and “Flashdance” each weekend, and renting some “Best Of” episodes of “Dick Clark’s American Bandstand,” supplemented with MTVs “The Grind.” That said, I think I’ll be ok . ;)

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I Have an Official New Name

Today, I officially became Sabrena Suite-Mangum. . . yeah, I know you thought I already was . . but I hadn’t made the official swap with the DMV or the Social Security Office.

Legally, I was still just “Sabrena Suite” up until about 12 hours ago . . . well, the LDS Church seemed to refer to me as Sabrena Mangum as of August 1 (at least, that’s what everyone in my ward calls me) . . . but now I have officially joined Danny’s name with mine.

WHAT A DAY?!?!?!

Btw, does the Social Security Office remind anyone but me of George Orwell’s description of the “Ministry of Love” in 1984? Seriously, the creepy elevator . . not to mention the place smells like the infamous days of viaduct fame. . . (urine, kids poop and alcoholics – soooooo nasty!).

I am so over that experience. . . but thankfully, I have a name to prove it.

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Turn Down Service

My husband just informed me it’s midnight, so I think I ought to stop blogging and go to bed . . . or at least read a chapter of Harry Potter. ;)


LOVE ya, Mean it!
Suite

Alas

Suite-Mangum