Pre-reading: Poledancing 101: A Mother and Daughter experience
The Pole has arrived! Or rather, my mother drove to the warehouse and collected it. I had noble plans to set up the bike trailer, cajole the Bike Friday Club of Sydney to chaperone me through the semi-industrial badlands of Botany and land it the carbon-friendly way. Turns out the box was as tall, wide and almost as heavy as I am - the warehouse manager actually used a little forklift to lower it into mum's car.
We wrestled it up the stairs and sat down to watch the DVD. I still can't believe we've gone and done this. I have to remind myself it's no different from someone laying down cash for one of those treadmills, stationary bicycles, exercise balls and mini trampolines they end up ignoring after the initial buzz and good intentions wear off.
The X-pole is basically a set of chromed sections that screw together, with a large domed ceiling piece to jam it between the roof and the floor plate. It has a discreet Allen bolt at the bottom which, when loosened, switches the pole to spinning mode - as in when you get to poledancing 9901. It comes with carry bag about the size of a set of golf clubs - so you can easily transport your equipment to your next burlesque show appearance.
Putting it up must have been a side-splitting sight for all our nosy neighbors in the apartment building next door. Imagine looking across into our tiny living room, seeing Mum shinning up on a ladder to attack a large steel shaft with the mother of all wrenches, and me steadying it below, with my bicycle helmet on in case the wrench flew south.
We got it nice and tight, tried a twirl, and bugger it (now that I've heard HRH aka Helen Mirren utter that expletive it's now the Queen's English) if the dome scooted across the ceiling and jammed there, assuming a defiant Leaning Tower of Pisa pose. Nothing we could do would shift it, despite putting on sexy music to coax it into position, so we slinked off to bed exhausted, our 1.5 hr pole installation routine quite a sufficient workout for the night.
We had to cajole our lithe redheaded instructor Tamara to come and help, who tackled it with the wrench like a dude in a hardhat. So now, we have this giant gleaming chrome fireman's pole dead center of our living room, just begging for a plasma TV, pot plants or cake stands to be cantilevered off it.
We've already had two of our pole lessons ... my arms are ten feet longer as proof.
More Galfromdownunder on poledancing
Right now I am attending a ThoughtLeaders boot camp in Sydney, a gift of a former mentor Siimon Reynolds, who never ceases to cheerlead me whenever I see him. "Chiang, you're great, remember this," he says. With that kind of encouragement who'd dare dribble and druther?