Sure, I still wish I was a flat-bellied little porcelain-skinned mama with minuscule pores and no visible signs of birthing. But at least this week I had more confidence. Oh, and a sweet little nightie -- shimmery pale blue with little yellow lacy details winking at the decolletage, all flouncy and flirty -- that I found on the hoochie rack at Sears.
Yes, Sears. And darlings, it was way on sale. I was feeling very bargain burlesque, which I guess is better than the alternative of feeling droopy-drawer yoga pantsish.
This week, Miss Fanny Tastic taught the class and I just loved her style. It was fun to shake it up a bit and we worked more on our boa-flouncing, glove-peeling, nightie-tossing dance. She also showed us a few new moves that I loved. My favorite was an arch lift, which you begin by laying down on the floor, one knee bent, toes pointed, arms outstretched. Then you pull yourself up to a seated position, arms behind you and thrusting out the girls, neck bared and head back. I am sure I am painting a picture that scares the hell out of you, but imagine if you will sitting up in bed but a bazillion times more seductive (erase all thoughts of fraternity t-shirts you stole from your hubs that are now stained with mother's milk and PlayDoh). Glorious.
The best part of it all is how high I feel when I leave. It's not just the feathers sticking to my sweaty shoulders or that I remembered all of the choreography at last. It is that surge of endorphins, that my heart is racing, that my thighs are sore and my abs are exhausted. That I eventually stop looking at all the skinnies in class and start focusing me, right in front of me in the mirror. And that I got all of that by doing this one thing, taking this one hour out of the week for myself.
Of course, the lingerie costumes don't hurt a thing either.