In Pole We Trust
“Take up your space, ladies!”
I looked at what constituted my “space” at that time. It was a pink yoga mat, rolled out on a concrete floor. Nine women on nine yoga mats also accompanied me, one of them being the birthday girl (a friend of mine) and another being Bethany Cagle, our instructor. On that pink mat on that concrete floor in that Denver studio, my chin was down and my butt was making circles in the air. This pose should be named “the wiggling sex kitten.”
Exploring this side of me was not easy. I was glad the room was filled with like-minded women, most of whom I had traveled with before. But a couple I had just met. Either way, friend or new friend, I wanted none of them to be watching me as I made a circular ass of myself. During one of the poses, as Bethany gave her instructions, I realized that I needed a visual aid so I looked around the room for guidance. No one was looking at me. I immediately felt more comfortable that no one was watching me for direction or for ridicule. This freed me up quite a bit, both emotionally and physically.
Bethany told us to extend our arms to the end of the mat, flipping our hair and rolling our heads in the process. “Use the whole mat! Really reach!” Bethany urged us.
The next lesson awaited us in the center of the room. Three poles, stuck in the middle of black circles, stood like phallic trophies in what was otherwise a very feminine space. The poles could symbolize one’s desire to explore the power of female energy or they could merely be posts to liven up a Saturday evening. That’s left up to the dancer. But even when our lesson moved from the floor to upright poses, Bethany continued encouraging us to use all of our space.
“Trust the pole!” Bethany said over the Beyoncé music blaring in the studio. “It will support you!”
I had just met this pole and didn’t trust it. Bethany’s studio was two stories high, a combination living loft and workable space, so the top part of the pole didn’t secure itself into anything. It brought back memories of losing several tetherball matches to much taller girls. But I wanted to try it. I leaned against the pole, grabbing it with both hands, until I was able to spin myself down. All those yoga moves had warmed up my legs and parts north, giving me this feeling of a goddess. And not Aphrodite — more like Athena. With every move Bethany taught us, I began to feel more powerful.
“Take up your space!” continued to ring in my head long after I stopped spinning on the pole. It’s easy to look at women in workout clothes, all prepped and ready to learn to use a pole as a dance prop, and tell them to take up space. It is much harder to live like that.
I am definitely not a mousy girl. I am obnoxiously opinionated. I get over my shyness quickly in new situations, a trait I acquired after living in many different cities as I grew up. I am not quiet, but not overbearingly loud. But did I take up my space in my life?
The last few years much of my life has been about my family, as I became the parent who stays at home with the kids. I thought that throwing myself completely into the lives of my children would show the world that I was a good mother (and convince myself as such). I certainly took up that space but not in a healthy way, completely ignoring the fact that I had to live in my own space, not secede it to my children.
So I began to write to help me be me. Not consistently but I wrote nonetheless. I have been writing for several years now, having just finished writing a novel (which I hate) and started a new one (which I love). And I would blog, each article being similar to Facebook posts in that they both contain scattered thoughts and were only read by my friends. I certainly wasn’t taking up space in my writing, choosing to merely dip my toe in the great lake of creative endeavors.
More and more, Bethany’s encouragement of taking up my space began to make more sense to me. It’s about putting down my mat and owning every inch. My space is not to be rolled up and taken home early, before I have finished the lesson. It’s not meant to be rolled out and merely looked at. It’s not to be shared by the person next to me. It is about me, pushing myself to the limit, forcing myself to do something uncomfortable, until it is no longer uncomfortable. It’s about not needing to know what others are doing on their mats. They have their own hair flips going.
Take up my space.
Use every inch.
Trust the pole.
When I flew home from Denver, I had the unfortunate luck of getting a middle seat. After I got situated, I realized that both gentlemen to the side of me had decided to lop over in my seat by usurping my armrests. I thought about a comedian who did a joke about proper etiquette in that exact situation. The person with the window seats gets to rest their head on the wall/ window and the armrest on that side. The person on the aisle, with a little extra legroom, gets the armrest closest to the aisle. The two middle armrests were to be mine. Even with Bethany’s message ringing in my ear, I didn’t want to rock the boat — at first. When I began typing on my laptop, it became clear that I needed some of the armrest territory. I began placing my elbows on the top edge, slowly moving them back towards sleeping Mr. Window and Mr. Aisle, who watched a movie on his phone. Soon, the armrests were mine.
I said a silent thank you to Bethany and her poles, promising to trust them and myself a little more.
