Recently, a friend and I have started doing pole-dancing classes. A trend that has attracted more than its fair share of public attention in the last few years, pole dancing classes have become about as original a blogging subject as a pair of fluffy slippers has a gift for Nan.
But hear me out! As someone who holds a firm opinion on everything from which way to the toilet paper should hang (underneath), to whether people who drive four wheel drives in the city should be rounded up and shot (yes, mercilessly), it has pained me for some time that I haven’t procured an opinion on the whole pole dancing - degrading or empowering? debate.
Considering I have, for the last few weeks now, been putting on a pair of hot pants and hooker heels every Monday evening, and trotting off to gyrate on a pole and pout at myself in a mirror for an hour (and, I’ll be honest, having the time of my life while doing it!) you would be forgiven for coming to the conclusion that I have moseyed on over to the empowering corner of the ring.
But there’s just something about dolled up, scantily clad women spruiking feminist ideas that has always seemed a little misguided to me (as I’m sure it has to many). I’m not sure when exactly the burning of bras made way for the seductively stripping off of bras, or when a woman without a man became less like a fish without a bicycle and more like a girl with no reason not to get shitfaced and pash eight men whose names she can’t remember, but the idea of feminism seems to have taken a few odd turns since my generation came of age.
On the other hand, it has struck me as prudish and judgemental when a few friends have given me that look of disgust, laced with a hint of pity (the kind of look you would give to someone who has food on their face but doesn’t realise it), when I have told them why I’m busy on Monday evening.
So I’ve felt a bit torn. I desperately want to defend my newfound hobby, but don’t feel particularly comfortable pretending to be some kind of Gen X Germain Greer while I strut around with my tiny shorts riding up my bum. Sorry, that’s just not right.
But this morning while I was doing the dishes – this activity isn’t related by the way, I’m not delving into gender roles here, it’s just that the kitchen sink is where I do lots of thinking and often have my epiphanies – I had, well… an epiphany.
I suddenly realised why it is that I can’t stand either corner of my proverbial degrading vs. empowering boxing ring. Both sides seem to be basing their arguments on the same, shocking misconception – that there is something wrong with harmless and private expressions of sexuality.
While this is an obvious trait of the anti-pole dancers, I have realised that some of those who endorse pole dancing are guilty of the exact same thing - by trying to convince everyone that pole dancing is not necessarily sexual. Pole dancing for fitness! Pole dancing for fun! Pole dancing isn’t about sex; it’s about toning your arms! No, smelly gyms and dumbbells are about toning your arms, you are gyrating on a pole, I am gyrating on a pole, it’s totally sexual… and that’s okay. In fact, pretending what we are doing isn’t sexual is what is potentially morally dangerous in my opinion, because then we are just a bunch of women having a work out on a normal weekday evening… while wearing push up bras and six-inch heels. If you ask me, it gets weirder and sleazier when you pretend there is nothing sexual about it.
So the next time anyone tries to tell me how great it is that we are “getting fit” while we slither up and down our poles, or the next time any of my friends look at me like I have food on my face, I will say no; no you are both wrong. On Monday evenings, I feel sexy, and until I develop hooker heel induced back pain and chronic wedgie syndrome, there’s nothing wrong with that.
No comments:
Post a Comment