Falling in Love With Pole Dancing While I Have Body Dysmorphia and Bad Elbows

written by Sisters in Motion student, Emily Zisman

I always thought I would be the kind of person who, when forced to spend an extended period of time inside my house, relatively alone (aside from my partner), and unexpectedly emancipated of all of my usual social obligations, would become one of those people who would double down on my musical practice, my physical activity regimen, my cooking skills, basically becoming a legend by developing all of the muscles and skills that I didn’t have time for in the normal world. I thought I would be like Bob Dylan or Robert Johnson emerging from a stint of hermitude as a superhero with a newfound and hard-won mastery of my mind, body, soul, and craft.

What actually happened was that I became inconsolably depressed and stagnant. My body bloomed in all the usual places that it does when I slightly release my grip on my physical OCD. My desire to cook didn’t materialize (it only ever really has been more of an aspiration than a passion) though I did consume my fair share of decadent steak dinners, martinis, and creme brulee because my partner became a pandemic master chef.

I did practice and write more, but the skills evolved slowly and I’m only a modest and decidedly reasonable measure closer to mastery than I was when I closed the pandemic door behind me.

What really surprised me was my lack of motivation to move my body. I LOVE dancing. I “appreciate” the after-effects of running, and I LOVE boxing and hiking. But I had zero desire to do any of these things while in quarantine and my body let me know alllllll about it. My elbows cracked and complained when I lifted certain objects or tried to manipulate doorknobs. My belly bloated, my wings flapped and jiggled, and my jowls filled in. I was not used to or familiar with this body.

Now that, societally, we are side-stepping cautiously back into the sunbeams of “normalcy,” I find myself emerging greyer, wider, and creakier than I have ever been. My body is fundamentally different now. My heart was defeated and I needed something new and inspiring to get me back to the giddy excitement of movement in the new world. I recognized that movement for movement’s sake was not the motivator that it was prior to the lockdown. I needed more reasons than just energy expenditure.

So, I signed up for pole dancing classes in San Franciso at Sisters In Motion.

... Like you do.

Athletic? Sure. Sexy? Absolutely!

Middle-aged? You’d be surprised.

I come from a moderately strict dance background. From an 8-year-old “interpretive mover”, to a Musical Theater major in college, there were mirrors EVERYWHERE in my classes. My lines had to be impeccable. Not so much to be eligible for the more interesting roles, but to be merely noticed for correction. To be given a modicum of recognition for the practice. To be worthy of growth.

My silhouette, posture, and turnout were aspirations that had me turning to disordered eating and “stretching” on homemade medieval torture devices designed to manipulate the bones of our feet for a more defined arch in the foot. Breaking our bodies was tantamount to prescriptive for success, recognition, and grace of movement. Or...not so much movement as pure aesthetic. The movement was almost transitory to the poses we would hit in the process of emulating strength, flexibility, posture, and above all, grace. The movement was the process, but the pose was the goal. I sincerely believed that I didn’t deserve to enjoy the transition of movement until I mastered the aesthetic.

When I signed up for the first pole dancing class, I made it my goal to be able to climb the pole by the end of the day. I’m still pretty strong....how hard could it be? I used to climb ropes in gym class, it’s the same general process, right? All I had to do was keep an eye on my form.

However, when I entered the room for the first time at the studio, there wasn’t a mirror in sight. There was no clock, and the only lights in the dimly lit room were red. I was covered from head to toe in leggings and layers even though the room was heated to a balmy 75F. I didn’t quite know what to expect, and I was certain that I was already doing it wrong.

As we sat on the floor and chatted through what I later understood to be the opening communal meditation, I recognized that this was a place I could speak honestly about my body. I could share my feelings of malnourished power and general inadequacy in a way that no other movement class allowed space for. But allowing my body to witness my internal struggle by just listening to me speak about her in front of other women, I felt her relax into the room and release into the floor. She understood that I was doing this for her enjoyment. We were ready for this now.

Not only are we encouraged to share our words in class, but we are encouraged to cheer each other on. We are encouraged to scream for each other, cheer, whistle, “yyaaaaaassss!” hoot, holler, clap, and stomp for one another. I admit, it felt VERY voyeuristic at first and it is sometimes hard to shake that still. But when I am on the receiving end, it feels immeasurably validating. Being encouraged so loudly and authentically by other women to move in ways that would have me thrown out of a bar feels like a homecoming of sorts. Or a reunion?

I have not missed a single class in months. I have grown to see the movement of every other woman in that class as a reflection of my own experience. The lack of mirrors forces me inward, and the appreciation of the movement and joy of other women forces me to be unapologetic about my enthusiasm for my fellow female movers. Most of all, I finally get to enjoy the dance of my own shape. I get to close my eyes and seek joy over perfection. I get to shut everything else out and enjoy my body right now, as it is at this moment. I get to take up as much space as I want and I get to just flow. And I am safe.

I almost dread the day when I have to skip it for some other obligation. I know it will always be there, and I know I haven’t been doing it for long, and I can’t yet climb the pole, and I know the pole was the goal...

But if this class has taught me anything, it’s that there is no goal.