Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
That’s what Kyla says to me when class ends that night. After I hightailed it out of the arena, I went straight to a pole class solo. I didn’t want to talk to my friends about what happened today. But that’s because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to move.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“A little,” she says with a smile. “But then again, I can kind of recognize the feeling. It was a rough day at the day job too.” She glances around the studio as most of the students shuffle out. I’m grabbing my water bottle as she asks, a little nervously, “Hey, any chance you can stick around to shoot some videos?”
“Of course,” I say immediately, since I’ve done that in the past for her as part of her efforts to promote the classes she teaches here.
“Thank you,” she says, flashing a grateful smile. “Marketing is nonstop these days. The Upside Down owner told me the landlord is upping the rent, so she’s marketing it even harder. Translation: I’m marketing it even harder.”
“I’m at your service then,” I say, happy to help. I like having something to do. I like being useful.
“Give me five minutes to straighten up so I don’t have to kick myself if I find a stray towel in a video,” she says as the last student waves goodbye. “You can climb or play on your phone or whatever.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I have zero interest in getting on my phone. I turned it off when I left work. I don’t really want to turn it back on. There’s a part of me that likes being unreachable right now.
No—there’s a part of me that needs it.
I spend so much of my life plugged in. Maybe too much.
As Kyla tidies the room, I return to the pole, wanting to keep moving. I already burned off my frustration in class. I’m not upset anymore. My job is handling problems, and I did it today. I’m proud of how I handled a complicated situation. I’m proud of how I took an event that was spiraling out of control and yanked it back into the orbit the team wanted.
So I savor one more moment on this chrome pole that has meant more to me than I ever expected. Or maybe I should have expected this connection. This pole has given me so much. It’s been a reconnection with friends. But also with Marie. We were supposed to do this together, and that was why it was so hard for me to start this class. But I know—I really know—she’d be proud of me. She’d have cheered me on when I walked through the studio door more than a year ago. She’d have been telling me I could do it each time I came back. She always believed in me, more than anyone. Certainly more than my own parents. I was the same way with her, encouraging her to go to culinary school, to pursue her dreams to be a chef, to explore the world.
Grabbing the pole with my right hand—my stronger side—I do a one-armed spin. It’s a simple move—one of the first I learned. I fly right past the mirror, checking my form. Objectively, it’s good. But I can see the flaws. I’m not sure anyone else could. Because the flaws aren’t in the execution. They’re in my head. In my choices to only do certain tricks.
But is that a flaw? I remember Maeve’s words from the other day—do it at your own pace.
Maybe my workaround isn’t truly a cheat. Maybe it’s the life hack I’ve needed. But what if I didn’t need one?
That question echoes in my head as I shift to another trick, one I’ve been doing for a while—an outside leg hang. I do it at my own pace. Grabbing it with both hands, I kick up my legs into the air while dropping my head toward the floor. I hook my left leg around the pole, my ponytail spilling toward the mat while I hold on tight.
“Nice work!” Kyla shouts from the cubbies.
“Feels pretty good,” I say on a sharp breath, not breaking the hold. It feels great actually. It’s everything I needed tonight.
A reset.
Even though I keep wondering.
What if…?
“Do you want a pic?” she asks, waggling her phone as she walks toward me.
It’s not the first time that she’s asked. I normally decline. When a kernel of tension forms in my gut, I know I’ll do it now too. Maybe I’m not ready for my what-ifs.
I flip over and stand upright again, shaking my head. “I don’t have social media,” I say.
She gives me a look—a friendly one, but a look nonetheless that says she knows that’s an excuse. “I hate to break it to you but you can take a picture just to take a picture.” She pauses, her soft blue eyes thoughtful. “You’ve made a lot of progress in a year and a half. You can take a picture just for you. It doesn’t have to be for the world.”