Monday, February 8, 2010
Super Bruise Sunday
I’m not a sports fan, but yesterday when Mr. Wonderful’s roommate’s girlfriend (got that?) invited us over for a little Super Bowl party, we gladly accepted. As always, she was a gracious host—cooking burgers for us, filling wine glasses, teaching us to pole dance.
Let me back up before I get to that story…
Shortly after we arrived to the party, Mr. W’s roommate started complaining about how he didn’t have a “special name” on my blog. He said he liked to consider himself part of the ensemble cast of my life, and that, as such, he deserved a character name like Mr. W.
So today I will give him that. Because he is an artist who regularly has giant canvases around the house with half naked women on them, I will name the roommate “Dirty Painter.” And because his girlfriend is the most adorable, sweet little Disney princess of a girl, her name from here on out will be “Southern Belle.”
Southern Belle took lots of dance lessons as a child and has the natural grace of a ballerina. A couple years ago, she decided to spin her dance abilities into something new, signing up for pole dancing classes. Now, they say anyone can be trained to pole-perform, but I think it takes someone with extensive skill and coordination like SB.
Anywhoo, being the awesome girlfriend she is, she went out and purchased a pole that could be erected in her living room for Dirty Painter to enjoy. When Mr. W and I walked into her place last night, we nearly ran into it—it’s right inside the front door, just as any good, serious pole should be.
Of course, I wanted to see the thing being used, so at some point during the football game, we all wandered into the living room for a demonstration. I think she went first, cascading down and around that metal shaft like a rose petal falling from its bud. Dirty Painter jumped on the pole next and not only maneuvered quite impressively around it, but landed on the floor with one hand on his head, striking a pose that sent all of us into hysterics. Mr. W, of course, wouldn’t touch the pole with a ten-foot pole…
After shooing the boys out of the room, SB gave her own roommate (oh sheesh, I guess I have to think of name for her too, now…) and me a quick tutorial on how to do some simple moves. She made it look so easy. She was controlled and graceful—toes pointed the entire time, hair fanning out around her, perfect landings that would have earned lots of dollar bills in the real world. Her roommate went next, and she too did an excellent job.
And then it was my turn.
Apparently my brain is incapable of making one leg go one direction and the other go another. I could get the first leg tucked safely around the pole, but when I started so swing down around it, the other leg flung forward and smacked the metal shin-first. Ow. Bruise. I tried again. Same spot, this time more tender.
Before we left, I invited Mr. W to come watch my ape-like grace in action. He, Southern Belle, and SB’s roommate watched on with hopeful expressions as I jumped and spun—wacking my leg harder than ever against the pole. I crumpled to the ground and, when I looked down at my shin bone, saw the big old goose egg pictured above.
Me and my raised bruise? We’re dead sexah.