Human Sweatball (6857-6860)

Yesterday at Marlo’s training I experienced what is common among my beginning students: sweaty palms. It happens when I get nervous.

Me, graduating. On Marlo's back. I got a diploma and a piggyback ride. That's not strange.

Me, graduating. On Marlo’s back. I got a diploma and a piggyback ride. That’s not strange.

Marlo taught a sample “beginner” class (although I’ve never been in a beginner class that required four-and-a- half minutes of solid dancing, climbs and castoff holds but she said was making it more interesting for us) and I morphed into The Human Sweatball.

I also lost the polish on my first two toes but you can see that it is a rather universal pole dancer problem if you don't wear shoes.

I also lost the polish on my first two toes but you can see that it is a rather universal pole dancer problem if you don’t wear shoes.

Let me try to find a more universal analogy that everyone can relate to.

Say you are taking a cooking lesson with Julia Child and you are capable of making soufflés, removing all the bones in a chicken while leaving it intact and throwing a five course dinner party for a crowd with only 4 hours notice. I can do all that shit, by the way. No sweat.

Then Julia (your hero) shows up to teach you a thing or two and starts the lesson by asking you to boil some water and you are all, “Oh. Right. I’ve done that … once. Do I use a pot for that, or a skillet? I do it in the oven, right? Should I heat the pot up and then put the water in? Should the water be refrigerated first? What temperature should I set the stove to? Goddamn it! I burned myself! I’M TOTALLY FREAKING OUT!”

Well, it was kind of like that. I was so sweaty that I couldn’t execute a simple carousel, or even ankle spin, without immediately dropping to the ground. Climbing was literally two feet up, one foot down.

Then I made up a really horrible and inappropriate analogy during a movement lab where I asked my blindfolded classmates to execute a figure eight hip swivel by imagining they are stirring a pot with a long handled spoon stuck in their vaginas, or butt-holes if they were male and didn’t possess a vagina (I didn’t want Ken and Ryan to feel left out).

Oh my God. The faces I got.

I open my mouth and the STUPIDEST shit just comes out. I try the simplest beginner spin and immediately slide to the floor. Marlo was trying to be helpful and touched my palms and was like, “Oh. You are sweaty.” I TOLD YOU!

Fuck.

Here’s a video of Marlo, Ken and Ryan messing around after the training. I’m doing what I do best: sitting on my ass with a video camera.

I’m never going to impress her. I’m never going to even convince her I am competent. So instead I’m going to find my way into her heart through her stomach. Right now I’m testing the limits of how much she can eat.

I love it when people eat. Being a mother has given me a deep appreciation for watching food get put away. Marlo likes everything.

Organic eggs laid from my own chickens? Check. Raw milk, aged cheese? No problem. Kale from my garden? Yep. All served on plates I made? Well, duh.

She will return to the big city having stayed in a very nice room and enjoyed breakfast in bed every morning.

The kitten likes to slip into the room and claw her way up Marlo’s legs but at least she is still pretty small and pole dancing has desensitized Marlo to most pain. It could be worse.

Time to cut the crap.

4 thoughts on “Human Sweatball (6857-6860)

  1. My favorite part of this whole story:
    “Then I made up a really horrible and inappropriate analogy during a movement lab where I asked my blindfolded classmates to execute a figure eight hip swivel by imagining they are stirring a pot with a long handled spoon stuck in their vaginas, or butt-holes if they were male and didn’t possess a vagina (I didn’t want Ken and Ryan to feel left out).”

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