Occupational Hazard (1751-1765)

I am performing at a fundraiser for Tabby’s non-profit this Saturday at Shine. It has been a rocky road to this event. When I first signed on I was teaching, since then my relationship with the studio ended and I found myself without a home and a community to encourage my progress. It takes a lot of courage to pole dance, especially if you are a middle aged mom. I relied upon the culture of the studio to help me push through my self-conciousness and negative self-talk.

Pole photos courtesy of the El Studio and Elizabeth Cantrell, shot at Boulder Spirals.

Pole photos courtesy of the El Studio and Elizabeth Cantrell, shot at Boulder Spirals.

Never one to suffer alone I took a private lesson with Roxy Star, an amazing performer and teacher. She gave me a much needed boost of encouragement and creativity. More importantly, she worked with me to find my voice. For me, pole dancing is part physical and part emotional. I daresay that for some people it is a means to self-actualization, and I don’t mean by objectifying oneself. I identified strongly with the studio and it has been an enlightening process to figure out who I am without it.

The last time I performed at Mindful Movement there was a strong emphasis on not being sexy so as to appeal to the new age crowd. It was a lovely quasi-modern-ballet-aerial piece that challenged me on many levels, but it wasn’t me. Since I am a free agent, the only person I have to be concerned about representing is myself. What’s my Mindful Movement? Who do I want to be? What will I put forth?

I want to be mature, knowing, feminine and yes, sexy. I want to feel like me.

I have to manage practicing for performances carefully, I’ve maxed out my arms to the point where I couldn’t practice for days. There’s a fine line between perfecting choreography and overdoing it. I can torpedo my performance in an instant if I push too hard or for too long. Right now I only have it in me to do the piece a few times in a row before I feel my grip slipping and my alignment get sloppy which is when accidents happen. So I’ve been running the piece, switching to computer work, making dinner, running the piece again, and so on. I have no idea with Zeb’s employees think, but surely by now they’ve gotten used seeing me in my underwear. Call it an occupational hazard.



Speaking of hazards, I went into the basement again.


15 items from the basement. I hate it down there. There is so much to get rid of that I hardly know where to start. Note the bag of bags in the corner. What purge would be complete without that?


A basket that won’t stand up, a sparkly cape/skirt (I can’t tell) thing, a cone, a sweater I tried to machine felt so I could make a quilt I saw on Martha Stewart’s website. It didn’t turn out, SHOCKING! Her projects always come out just like the picture. Paper goods. 


A hotel bathmat Zeb stole accidentally took at least 20 years ago and has a big stain on it and a crappy carry-on from Target that I never use. I am against carry-ons, especially ones that you can’t wear on your back or at least have wheels.


Clay I hoarded from the pottery lab before they got all uptight about it. It’s rock solid now. A slump mold I purchased but also didn’t work out. I’m donating that one to the lab.


Paper templates for ceramics projects of old. Trash.


And a picture of Blue on our hike this morning. This is my dumb blog, I can post pictures of my dog if I want.

6 thoughts on “Occupational Hazard (1751-1765)

  1. My dad, the English professor, sent this to me. I had to put it here, just to bask in the warm glow of approval:”

    I levered Mac out of her office to read her part of your just posted epistle. I then analyzed it for rhetorical structure for Mac, pointing out all of its strengths. You really are a classically good writer (though I don’t know if you were classically trained or not). Did you just pick it up? How the hell did you learn this?”

  2. Pingback: If You Have to Be Mentally Ill to Blog Then I’m In (1952-1965) « Process of Elimination

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