Play & Book Excerpts
Hello? Who Is This? Margaret?
(River Grove Books)
© Dani Alpert
Between Fantasy and Reality Is a Stripper Pole
The surest way to put me on the defensive is to tell me I can’t do something. People love to impose their limitations onto others—as if we’re all the same, with the same skill sets and talents. They also love to make assumptions about what’s possible or no longer possible, especially when we hit a certain age. Maybe I don’t have any limitations. I don’t know what I’m capable of, nor do these idiots. Their meritless notions are a gauntlet thrown at my feet. And now I have to drag myself out of bed and defend myself.
This defiance is the “how” and “why” that led to me standing half-naked on a stage in lower Manhattan at a pole fitness competition in my late forties. A few months earlier, I’d read a cloying article about diminishing dreams and estrogen levels, and I wanted to spit. Paragraph after paragraph, the author babbled on about youthful dreams in the rearview mirror and the importance of radical acceptance. And to love my crepey elbows. “This is life,” I read. “The beauty of age is knowing when to let go of activities no longer viable.” The article concluded with, “Embrace this stage of life. Think of your sagging earlobes as signs of maturity and wisdom.”
I immediately signed up for a pole class. Because now, I had something to prove. Ironically, I’d had a run-in with the pole fifteen years earlier.
I was living in Los Angeles, and one day I saw an ad for a new kind of fitness class: Introduction to the Stripper Pole. I signed up because I was curious and thought people would think I was audacious. It was pretty risqué at the time.
Maggie Lord was the owner of You Foxy Studios. She’d turned pole dancing into a workout, branding herself the Pole Healer. It got so popular that poles started popping up in bedrooms and corporate offices from coast to coast. Women took control of their sexuality and empowered themselves, blah, blah, blah—I mean, great for them, but what I really cared about was that Maggie’s husband was a producer on the television show The X Files. It came up on the website when I researched her class. I was convinced he’d put me on the show if I could just meet him.
My plan went something like this: I’d befriend Maggie in class. She’d invite me over for some holiday or a Hollywood who’s who confab. She’d introduce me to her husband, and after the initial pleasantries, I’d ask to use the bathroom and then pretend to be lost so I could snoop around. I’d find Mr. Producer’s study, where television scripts are stacked on a coffee table. I’d place my headshot and resume on top—a serious performer never leaves home without them. Shortly afterward, I’d receive a call from The X Files’ casting director offering me a recurring role playing a terrorist in a coma.
Sadly, Maggie’s class wasn’t for me, and we didn’t become friends. It was too kooky—too much “pleasure journey” and “erotic truth” talk. When I explore my body, which the class was encouraged to do, I prefer doing so in the privacy of my bedroom and not with a bunch of strangers writhing on their bellies in a dimly lit studio.
But after reading that stupid article, it was intolerable to think that climbing a pole was behind me. I wanted to see for myself and not be swayed by my naked reflection goading me in the full-length mirror in my bedroom.
My instructor at Fitness and Pole in Midtown, Holly, was a tall woman with a jet-black mullet, biceps for days, and zero percent body fat. My washed-out bird tattoo on my ankle looked weak compared to her red-inked MOM across her chest. From the first class, it was a lovefest between the chrome pole and me. I can’t say why exactly, but straddling and squeezing a metal rod between my legs agreed with me. I was all in. I bought booty shorts from the studio’s retail shop and non-slip liquid to give me a tackier grip. I made friends with burlesque dancers and trapeze performers. Boy, did I regret not running away from home and joining the circus when I had the chance.
Only a month after I’d started, Holly told our class that the U.S. National Pole Championship was coming to New York. She encouraged everyone to participate, even us beginners. What better way to shut the naysayers up than signing up for a competition? In private, I asked Holly if she thought I was ready. Two days earlier, I was cleared to join Level 2. But I’d only hung upside down a handful of times.
“Definitely,” Holly said. “There’s an over forty category.” I didn’t remember telling her my age. What could’ve possibly given me away? Her assumption fueled the “I’ll show you” fire building inside me.
When I returned to my apartment, in a rush of emboldened confidence, I registered for the competition. I didn’t overthink, overanalyze, or ask for anyone’s opinion. And then, I made the mistake of watching videos of past competitions on YouTube. Watching participants fly around the spinning poles made me dizzy. I’d never be able to spin. I get nauseous reading road signs when I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car. Women defied gravity and contorted their bodies in ways I never imagined were anatomically possible.
And they did it while wearing what amounted to a loincloth on the bottom and a headband strapped across their boobs. One woman went into a vertical split against the pole, holding on by the back of her kneecap.
I bought a pole for my apartment so I could practice every day.
The surest way to put me on the defensive is to tell me I can’t do something. People love to impose their limitations onto others—as if we’re all the same, with the same skill sets and talents. They also love to make assumptions about what’s possible or no longer possible, especially when we hit a certain age. Maybe I don’t have any limitations. I don’t know what I’m capable of, nor do these idiots. Their meritless notions are a gauntlet thrown at my feet. And now I have to drag myself out of bed and defend myself.
This defiance is the “how” and “why” that led to me standing half-naked on a stage in lower Manhattan at a pole fitness competition in my late forties. A few months earlier, I’d read a cloying article about diminishing dreams and estrogen levels, and I wanted to spit. Paragraph after paragraph, the author babbled on about youthful dreams in the rearview mirror and the importance of radical acceptance. And to love my crepey elbows. “This is life,” I read. “The beauty of age is knowing when to let go of activities no longer viable.” The article concluded with, “Embrace this stage of life. Think of your sagging earlobes as signs of maturity and wisdom.”
I immediately signed up for a pole class. Because now, I had something to prove. Ironically, I’d had a run-in with the pole fifteen years earlier.
I was living in Los Angeles, and one day I saw an ad for a new kind of fitness class: Introduction to the Stripper Pole. I signed up because I was curious and thought people would think I was audacious. It was pretty risqué at the time.
Maggie Lord was the owner of You Foxy Studios. She’d turned pole dancing into a workout, branding herself the Pole Healer. It got so popular that poles started popping up in bedrooms and corporate offices from coast to coast. Women took control of their sexuality and empowered themselves, blah, blah, blah—I mean, great for them, but what I really cared about was that Maggie’s husband was a producer on the television show The X Files. It came up on the website when I researched her class. I was convinced he’d put me on the show if I could just meet him.
My plan went something like this: I’d befriend Maggie in class. She’d invite me over for some holiday or a Hollywood who’s who confab. She’d introduce me to her husband, and after the initial pleasantries, I’d ask to use the bathroom and then pretend to be lost so I could snoop around. I’d find Mr. Producer’s study, where television scripts are stacked on a coffee table. I’d place my headshot and resume on top—a serious performer never leaves home without them. Shortly afterward, I’d receive a call from The X Files’ casting director offering me a recurring role playing a terrorist in a coma.
Sadly, Maggie’s class wasn’t for me, and we didn’t become friends. It was too kooky—too much “pleasure journey” and “erotic truth” talk. When I explore my body, which the class was encouraged to do, I prefer doing so in the privacy of my bedroom and not with a bunch of strangers writhing on their bellies in a dimly lit studio.
But after reading that stupid article, it was intolerable to think that climbing a pole was behind me. I wanted to see for myself and not be swayed by my naked reflection goading me in the full-length mirror in my bedroom.
My instructor at Fitness and Pole in Midtown, Holly, was a tall woman with a jet-black mullet, biceps for days, and zero percent body fat. My washed-out bird tattoo on my ankle looked weak compared to her red-inked MOM across her chest. From the first class, it was a lovefest between the chrome pole and me. I can’t say why exactly, but straddling and squeezing a metal rod between my legs agreed with me. I was all in. I bought booty shorts from the studio’s retail shop and non-slip liquid to give me a tackier grip. I made friends with burlesque dancers and trapeze performers. Boy, did I regret not running away from home and joining the circus when I had the chance.
Only a month after I’d started, Holly told our class that the U.S. National Pole Championship was coming to New York. She encouraged everyone to participate, even us beginners. What better way to shut the naysayers up than signing up for a competition? In private, I asked Holly if she thought I was ready. Two days earlier, I was cleared to join Level 2. But I’d only hung upside down a handful of times.
“Definitely,” Holly said. “There’s an over forty category.” I didn’t remember telling her my age. What could’ve possibly given me away? Her assumption fueled the “I’ll show you” fire building inside me.
When I returned to my apartment, in a rush of emboldened confidence, I registered for the competition. I didn’t overthink, overanalyze, or ask for anyone’s opinion. And then, I made the mistake of watching videos of past competitions on YouTube. Watching participants fly around the spinning poles made me dizzy. I’d never be able to spin. I get nauseous reading road signs when I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car. Women defied gravity and contorted their bodies in ways I never imagined were anatomically possible.
And they did it while wearing what amounted to a loincloth on the bottom and a headband strapped across their boobs. One woman went into a vertical split against the pole, holding on by the back of her kneecap.
I bought a pole for my apartment so I could practice every day.
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Dani Alpert is the author of Hello? Who Is This? Margaret? — a new collection of humorous essays — and the memoir, The Girlfriend Mom, winner of the 2020 Story Circle Network Gilda Award for comedy, honoring Gilda Radner.
Her work appears in numerous outlets. Dani spent decades working in theater, television and film, performing, writing and directing. She’s a Pilates instructress and an advocate for the Down syndrome community. Dani’s first headshot was her mugshot, taken after being arrested for tagging when she was a juvenile. She’s been trying to reclaim those glory days ever since. |
Dani Alpert
Photo Courtesy: Dani Alpert |
