Feral as a Gray Hair

My new condo is on the same floor as an aerial yoga studio. Poses are done in silks hanging from the ceiling, and the practice is supposed to leave you feeling held, cocooned.

That sounds lovely, but I knew from past experience that all that whirling makes me want to hurl.

When I discovered this studio also offers pole dancing, I immediately thought, Hell, yes! What better way to feel like some bad-ass Marvel character?

A few minutes before class was supposed to start, I walked the 27 steps to get to the studio. Free time was just finishing up. Powerful bodies practiced the routines they’d be performing at an upcoming show.

One woman spun around that pole with such ferocity, it was like she was marking her territory. Her eyes flashed at me as as she sauntered past.

I couldn’t wait to get me some of that.

The other young students must have taken classes there before, because they knew to spray down their poles to help with the grip, knew how to lock the poles in place.

While I wore a t-shirt with the word Feral emblazoned across my chest, I felt as awkward as a narwhal at a tea party.

But soon, I was gripping the metal pole with one hand and going around and around.

Ooooh, hello inner vixen!

I switched hands and began to spin the other direction. Around, around.

A roiling miasma began to boil in my belly. I could feel the retch crawling toward my throat.

Are you kidding me?

The teacher smiled at me.

I beamed back.

For our next move, we were supposed to hold onto the pole with one arm and lift up before fluidly sliding back down.

Reaching my left arm up high, I tried to mimic the action that the teacher had made look so easy.

The entire room could hear the sound of my squeaking flesh as I skidded down the pole and landed on my ass on the floor.

The teacher smiled at me.

It was getting harder and harder to smile back.

I am a yoga teacher! I bellowed inside. I know my body, know how to make it do what I want!

Not here.

Not now.

I held the cold pole with one hand and stared down at the floor, humbled.

In that instant, I was reminded of how much courage it takes for new students to get on the mat in one of my yoga classes.

Because yoga reveals.

It shows us what we can do, yes, but also what we can’t, as well as what we hold and what we’d rather forget—our age, history, hurts, limitations, and especially our habits, the ones that serve us, the ones that don’t.

So, stepping on a yoga mat or taking a Blacksmithing class or showing up to try pole dancing . . . every time we do something like that it requires courage.

Living bravely, fiercely from the heart, no matter what the results.

When class was finally over, I murmured, “Thank you, great class,” before slipping on my shoes to walk the 27 steps back home.

Waiting for the water to boil for a cup of calming tea, I looked out my condo windows. All kinds of humans walked up and down the busy street below.

All kinds of bodies.

Making their way into the world.

Some made it look easy.

Some struggled against invisible forces that I could only imagine.

But every single one of us . . . invited to own who we are . . . where we are . . . no matter what we are going through.

My mind drifted back to the time in my life when every day felt like a battle. After I showered, I would take a thick, black Sharpie and write the word Marvel on my inner right thigh.

Captain Marvel had just come out. While the main character had incredible superpowers, the one that impressed me most was that whenever she got knocked down, she got back up.

Every. Single. Time.

As I turned back toward the counter to make my tea, I saw that class as the gift it was—yet one more chance to show up.

And fall.

And practice being a marvel, a body that chooses to rise, no matter what.

It also gave me the chance to be as feral as a gray hair.

Real and ridiculous and wild.

There’s nothing more Bad Ass with a Big Heart than that.