About two weeks ago, I started a new pole dancing class downtown. It's pretty classy, in a real studio, and taught by Allyson, a certified pole instructor who has performed all over the world, as opposed to an ex-con named Kandi who advertises on Craig's List that she teaches cash-only classes "sometimes" at the Knight's Inn. (Yes, this is factual information.) For the legit class, students had to sign a waiver before the classes started saying that Allyson was in no way, shape, or form responsible for the heinous bruises we would incur during the lessons, which I knew would be brutal because I've been on the pole before and also I bruise easily because I'm a dainty princess of a woman who is rife with autoimmune diseases.
A few days after the first class, I was sitting on the porch marveling at the Rorschach that my legs had become, and snapped an IG photo of them. THIS photo, to be precise.
Almost immediately, I get a text from my daughter, Bell, that is a screenshot of a text SHE received from a good friend, Richard, who has basically joined the family. I originally met Richard because he was giving my son drum lessons when he joined the marching band, but then drum lessons on Tuesdays morphed into me coming downstairs on any random day at any random time, even if no one else was home, and finding Richard digging through the fridge and watching tv, so I just made him part of the family. This is Richard:
Anyway, this is the screenshot Bell sent:
Because I feel like 1) It was a photo of my calf and you could barely see part of my foot and 2) Richard needs to learn he's not the boss of me, I immediately texted Richard (and Bell) a photo of both feet (which he has probably already sold on the Internet for a tidy sum). The following conversation ensued:
RICHARD: This is a personal attack.
BELL: Ew, dude.
RICHARD: I will never emotionally recover from this.
BELL: Same bruh.
ME: You know traumatizing people is my love language, children.
BELL: We know.
*Then I said something that apparently Bell would rather I hadn't, which I will leave out of this blog because even though she swears she doesn't care what I blog about, I don't want to piss her off and have her quit school, join a gang, and get a face tattoo that says "Fuck you, Mom."* So we'll pick up with this:
BELL: That was uncalled for.
RICHARD: I'm gonna need some form of elaboration.
ME: Ask your fake sister, Bell.
BELL: (Explains to Richard) That hurts my feelings.
ME: Well, it hurts MY feelings that you guys are talking trash about my feet because they're pretty and my nails are all painted and shiny and there's nothing wrong with my feet.
RICHARD; You two need to stop complaining. I received unsolicited feet pics.
ME: You like it, Richard.
RICHARD: I really don't.
BELL: None of us like this convo.
ME:
Look! Hugo wants in on this action!
RICHARD: No. Please.
BELL: Dude no.
ME: You're welcome
This was supposed to be a blog about pole dancing, but I got off on the foot/Richard/boss-of-me tangent and forgot the dancing part. Sorry. Since then, the bruises have only gotten worse, I sprained my wrist, and, slightly unrelated, yesterday I dropped my giant, full, very heavy metal water bottle on my toe and I'm pretty sure it's broken. 5 out of 5 stars, I'm killing it at life.
But, you know, that's just how I roll.
