Week Six: Pole Dancing & The Art of Self Destruction

This week, I managed to cross off the first goal from my list, the task of which was far, far more painful than one would have imagined. In earnest, it gives me a greater deepened respect for women (and men--this is an inclusive space!) who work in the sex industry as pole dancers. 

Let me break it down for you. 

My good friend Tara recently turned 34 and decided to celebrate by taking a group of us to a pole dancing class this last Friday. Going in, I had no idea how utterly and impossibly difficult it would be. Seriously. Two days later and getting out of bed is an absolute chore! We climbed, we spun, we used muscles that had not previously been utilized in such mildly uncomfortable ways. I thought it would be mostly us learning to do some halfway fancy shit and look sexy while doing it. Nope. It was more like, "Oh, upper body strength? Yeah, you'll need all of that. Now climb that pole and spin around to the bottom all while looking like the graceful and beautiful woman you are." Ow. Ow ow ow. My everything hurts. You should see the bruises my thighs have from the ordeal.

Our crew minus my favorite redhead next to Christina Hendricks. By this point in the day, we were all very sweaty and very sore. Tara's the birthday girl with the ADORABLE red tutu!

I'd very much like to try it again. Pain is always worth the gain. But perhaps I'll tackle boxing first. 

If you remember from the above linked blog post, one of the goals for this year is to read twelve new books, the first of which was Julie & Julia by Julie Powell. If you're unfamiliar with the premise, it's about the authors attempt to cook her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in an effort to figure out her life. She had just turned twenty nine (do you see why this sounds familiar?) and was more or less self destructing, hurting her marriage, and tearing herself to bits and pieces trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life. A few weeks back, I happened upon the book in a thrift store and having seen the movie knew that it would be hitting too close to home to pass up. How could I say no to a story whose protagonist was experiencing much of the same inner turmoil that I was?

Though I have to say that I am so very much like and unlike Julie Powell. For one, she often has a sailors mouth and unless terribly frustrated, I don’t seem to curse often. If the occasion calls for it,  profanities will tumble out of my mouth at will, scarcely afraid that I would stop them. It is just as well that I should leave curse words in the box of mind, tucked away for special occasions because I worry that overuse will ruin their effect for me: if I choose such an occasion to curse, I want it to mean something. Julie, however, seems to curse frequently, spurning the frustrations of not really understanding herself and feeling guilt for having a husband who puts up with her lack of self awareness. 

In the way that a person understands that dark thunderclouds on the horizon certainly mean an incoming storm, I understand Julie’s struggles. I understand her anger and frustration. It was as though this monumental task of cooking her way through MtAoFC was a last ditch effort into saving herself from absolute and utter destruction. It seems one of our only major differences is that when I explode, I don’t intend on taking anyone with me. My detriment, as always, lies in self sufficiency and my unwillingness to do anything but alone. Maybe this is my downfall. Is my steadfast belief in autonomy the root of my destruction? 

In one way or another, I've always believed in self-care. I don't believe this to be a pessimistic viewpoint but rather a practical one. People are fallible. And even with the best of intentions, people can and will let you down. This isn't a reflection on the goodness of man but rather the human-ness of man. It's neither bad nor good--it just is. But at the end of the day, you will always have you. Maintaining my independence has always been the goal.

There's a literary term called hamartia which means fatal flaw. In lit theory, especially when discussing the classics, one would use this term often to describe the main character because isn't it usually the case that the story revolves around a person's fatal flaw? That one thing that sets them on the path of chaos. Sometimes that fatal flaw is selfishness or greed; perhaps it's lack of planning or recklessness. Is my unwavering inclination towards reclusivity ultimately the thing that will undo me? Is there such a thing as too much self-reliance? 

While I mediated on this idea of independence, I found myself myself wishing to know "what does her husband think about this behavior? Why is he acting so passive when Julie is clearly acting insane right now". But, being a memoir, it's easy to forget that the stories we tell are painted through the lenses in which we view them. Julie can no more understand her husbands reactions than she can her own. In that same way, I am only able to understand the world through the experiences that I have and can only make educated guesses about the world view of someone else. That being said, I still very much feel like I'm at the beginning of my book, the beginning of my story of self discovery. Frankly, I have no idea what I'm doing. That's one of the many myths we tell as adults that we're supposed to look like we have it all together all of the time and that's never actually the case. 

The helpful thing to know is that even though this is the beginning, and much like Julie's hurdles to figure out her life, the end of this chapter is really around the corner. Julie didn't know when she started her Julie/Julia project that it would fundamentally change her life. And while I hold no outrageous beliefs about what this #30Before30 project will turn into, I know that whatever it turns into, even if that just means that I got to try thirty new things, it will be great because I did them.

What's that old rot, "Life is about the journey, not the destination."? Sounds like something that would be cross-stitched onto a pillow.

Until next week, friends!