I love having a plan and am pretty good at it, even if I say
so myself.
Now even though my personal development plan (PDP to the
corpees out there) always said my “area of development” (aka shit I’m not good
at doing) said “planning” in big red letters the last six years of my
employment, that’s not entirely accurate.
I just didn’t like the kind of planning they wanted me to
do, is all.
But when it comes to my life, my actual experience as a
human being, planning is crucial to me.
Now, this might conjure up images of me having a Filofax (#80’s),
an immaculate diary and a daily routine that flows seamlessly from point A
through to point Z, at the end of which I slide into my perfectly made,
pethairless* bed, legs shaved to a silky finish but still somehow tanned, my
flawless body lovingly dressed in a beautiful negligee, close my eyes and drift
into the kind of slumber reserved specially for those who have everything under
perfect control.
That would be a misconception of epic proportions.
When I said “plans” I really meant “backup plans”…even “escape
plans” might describe the things I hoard in my head a little better.
In other words, these plans are there so that I can continue
living through mildly to extremely unpleasant events while only being sort of
present. The other part of me will be off preparing the future scenario in my
mind, where everything will be completely different and obviously much nicer.
Even though that doesn’t even matter either because by the
time that reality is in the present, half of me will be off to the next
hypothetical scenario, fluffing the pillows of that next, glorious bed, metaphorically
speaking.
Okay, let’s talk real examples.
One night in the not so distant past, I was sitting hunched
over on the couch with a box of cheapish red on the coffee table and a very
grimy wine glass in my hand, staring at the clock. It said 02:00. What a
depressing time to be awake and holding a grubby wine glass.
This behaviour had been spiraling slowly out of control over
the previous two weeks or so and I knew the signs when I saw them.
I was drinking too heavily and gaining weight at an alarming
rate. This could also partly be ascribed to continuously stuffing my face with
potato chips to get the wine taste out of my mouth. Insanity, thy name is
annoyance!
But, being a wise and experienced sage, I chose not to:
aa.)
Put down the wine and go to bed like an adult
Or
bb.)
Pour all the alcohol in the house down the drain
like a crazed alcoholic.
No
.
I quietly kept sipping my wine as I got out my little note
pad and started jotting down ideas of how to address this problem
realistically.
Of course, this was fraught with danger as an inebriated
mind can come up with some crazy shit at two in the morning.
And mine did not disappoint.
Plan number one was *drumroll* pole dancing!
If I went to pole dancing lessons all the time, I wouldn’t
have time to drink, it will obviously whip me into fabulous shape which in turn
will boost my self-esteem so much I wouldn’t feel like drinking as much and the
big one: I will learn how to pole dance, heck yeah!
I already felt better just dreaming about how amazing I was
going to be, so the rest of the wine and potato chips tasted a little less
depressing and I managed to weave my way through the house to bed where I breathed
vile fumes into my poor husband, who I shall refer to from here on forth as
Truluv* (gangsta for True Love)’s face.
A truly wonderful plan has as much merit in being made as in
being deployed.
Which is a good thing because my hangover lasted ages and
The Plan couldn’t unfold until I could face daylight without hissing again.
Finally, after toying with the idea of ditching the plan
just to screw with myself a little more, I found a place and went to my very
first class.
This was sobering for two reasons. For one, I was used to
having my first tittle by this time of the evening and two; instead of sinking
into the couch with said tittle, I was standing in a room filled with poles,
younger and thinner women -girls
even- and swaddled in what can only be described as an eclectic mix up of
garments I thought people generally learn pole dancing in.
Run run run until you
get to London! Said brain.
Glub glub time? Enquired
addictive personality centre in brain.
No, replied I,
squaring my double chin.
The instructor flounced in with a body to weep over but
teeth that soothed my jealousy, ever so slightly.
She made the newbies sign waivers so we couldn’t sue them if
we dropped on our heads and developed resentful feelings.
Then we did a few little exercise-esque things and I felt
impatient to start with the good stuff. When with the flying and the
beautifulness, miss?
So I was very excited when she clapped her hands together
and announced the time to start poling.
She showed as a step up thing that seemed as easy as cherry
pie until I tried it and found that I weigh a million pounds and as a result
have extreme difficulty getting off the ground and onto the pole.
Also once I finally managed to heave myself up I experienced
a sensation I imagined akin to having your shin flayed, then doused with
boiling sea water.
Sliding from the pole with yelp of surprise and expression
of indignation, I almost enquired WTF
dude? From the smirking instructor. But she seemed used to this sound and
expression being expressed in her studio and calmly handed me some liquid chalk
for my sweaty palms, which made me forgive her instantly because Ohhhhh! It’s not because of me being
grotesquely overweight, it’s just slippery hands causing this ungainliness! ohhh!
Trying out the basic spin she showed us and losing the top
layer of skin behind my knee, I found another highly unpleasant factor of this
class, and funny enough it was not the loss of previously mentioned skin.
There is a giant mirror, no not a mirror, a WALL made of mirror, in the front of the room…and
I…in it. Plainly visible to the naked eye. Painfully large and with a stunned
look on my face and red shins.
How to deal with this problem.
Subconscious Brain was luckily quick-footed and sure of wit
because apart from the first spin I managed to execute quite nicely, after
spotting the lesser spotted and in fact much avoided me in the mirror, I instantly lost the ability and could only turn
in semi-circles, always away from the mirror.
Coming to a screeching halt inches away from facing myself
again, the thought did cross my mind that this activity, although sobering, was
much trickier than previously anticipated.
As I drove home, it started raining and a tiny wave of
goodfeelingness didn’t exactly wash over me, but sort of climbed on top of me
and lay there.
This is good, I did
something! I worked out and did a basic turn! I wonder if I should have a glass
of wine to celebrate. Oh no, I thought of wine! What do I do?
So I went home and I honestly can’t remember whether I had
wine or not…which probably means that I did…but that’s not the point.
I kept going to the classes and sometimes there would be
other beginners, no that’s not a strong enough word for what we were, EXTREME
beginners who would practice on the same pole as me and have the same difficulties
and sheepish looks on their faces, which really helped. One of them were even a
little bit bigger than me, which helped a whole lot.
Most days-after I wouldn’t be able to walk like a natural
person and would hobble from dentist to dentist (I’m a dental sales rep) with,
let’s call it a primateal bounce gait*.
But after about three weeks of going to two classes per
week, I started feeling a little tighter around the midriff and stomach.
This was probably as a result of both exercising as well as
not drinking and pigging out on Tuesdays or Thursdays, so yay for me, even
though I was still indulging my head off on all other days of the week…especially
Sundays… I hate you Sunday.
Alas, this brief window of respite was not to last…
On a dark and stormy night, far away from home, in an evil
cave called Protea Hotel Polokwane, I was destined to slip and fall in the dumb
shower/bath while rinsing the shampoo from my hair…and DIE!
Well die, if by dying you mean landing on the side of the
tub rim with your ribs and straining your intercostal muscles, causing you to
screech uncontrollably and then in turn causing severe pain in the event of
uncontrollable screeching, which causes an infinite loop of uncontrollable screeching.
Thus bringing my budding career as a stripper to a premature
end.
Or did it?
*copyright dibs on the phrases “Pethairless”, “Truluv” and “Primateal
Bounce Gait”
