Boutique Law Firms, Exercise, Small Law Firms

Test Case: Bringing Sexy Back? A Partner Gives Pole Dancing A Chance.

A partner decides that it's time to bring sexy back (and not just on Halloween).

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Allison Peryea, at the pole.

Allison Peryea, at the pole.

As a law partner in my mid-30s who’s been in the same relationship since Adam and Eve were an item, “be sexy” isn’t really on my to-do list any more. I focus on other lofty goals, such as “be productive,” “eat vegetables,” and “remain solvent.” Indeed, lately the gym shoes I wear on my walk to work have become the shoes I wear all day at the office. And at home I am back to my fall-winter “uniform”: sweats, slippers and a blue North Face fleece I stole from my boyfriend that is usually sporting evidence of my last several meals.

It was time to bring sexy back, and not just on Halloween. So my friend Ali and I signed up for a pole-dancing class, using a half-off coupon they handed out at the Gay Pride Festival this summer. (You can be both sexy and thrifty, kids). These classes have become increasingly popular as a new and different way to work out: boot camp for booty shakers.
At happy hour the day before the class, we discussed the classic conundrum: What does one wear to pole dance? We had concerns about friction and the unintentionally revealing aspects of running shorts.

The day of the class, we had difficulty finding the pole-dancing studio. We ultimately located it in the basement of one of those old, two-story Capitol Hill commercial buildings that developers salivate over in their lust to turn everything into unaffordable condos. The studio itself was best described as “super cute.” There was a bank of Tiffany blue lockers, and posters with affirmational sayings on them. The takeaway was that pole dancing was for everyone. I was about to test that theory.

There were six members in the class: Ali, me, and four girls who all looked younger and decidedly more limber. Our instructor was a girl named Ace who was sporting a psychedelic pair of leggings covered in circuit switchboards.

We did a little warm-up and she started introducing us to some floor moves. One of them included the “Bombshell,” where you start out sitting on the floor and then roll up to standing without making that “I’m no spring chicken anymore” noise. I started feeling…unwieldy. Turns out that pole dancing is one of those activities that takes a lot of work to look easy, like rock climbing or eating spaghetti.

Soon we were learning some pole moves. She taught us how to do a little twirl around the pole with a turn and a dip. We all started laughing and talking, releasing the pent-up, awkward energy associated with gyrating while sober in front of others. Ace shushed us, as this was apparently a serious pole-dancing class. I was a little bummed: Ali and I are the kind of lawyers who talk. All. The. Time. Even. At. Movies. Also, it was hard for me to work the sexy angle after being chastised (I feel like a Fifty Shades of Grey joke would work here, but can’t think of one just now).

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After a few more trips around the pole, I started getting dizzy and felt like my dominant arm had been gently tugged from its socket. I had a new respect for exotic dancers and my Grandma Taylor, who exercises by swinging herself around the structural support pole in her basement.

One series of moves we learned involved walking over to the wall, bending over, and swiveling your hips and tossing your hair. It seemed like the sort of thing that required no special skills to master, but I definitely felt more silly than sexy. Getting the moves right was insufficient: You also had to let down that invisible barrier most of us automatically construct to protect ourselves from the possibility of looking foolish in public. It was a tough thing to do.

The final move we learned was called a “fireman spin.” It involved lifting both feet off the ground and wrapping them around the pole as you spun until gravity reminded you of your shortcomings. It was like a trust exercise with your own body to prove to yourself that you weren’t going to break a toe or something and then hobble into work with a pole-dancing injury.

Eventually we strung together enough moves to create a short routine. The idea of going through the whole thing gave my heart that flutter of nervousness that comes with performing in public. I would have laughed it off but I feared Ace’s retribution for intentionally creating sound during class. I managed to remember the steps of the routine and felt the warm glow of accomplishment. (Look Mom, I pole danced!)

At the end of the session, our instructor performed for us. She was really quite impressive with her writhing about on the ground and then climbing up to the ceiling. It was oddly inspiring, though I was somewhat distracted by my fear of being an audience to a live performance in a small space. (I once watched improv in a tiny apartment and barely lived to tell about it.)

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Over the next few days, my shins developed a network of bruises from my pole-dancing efforts. You’d think pole dancing would be all fun and games and cash tips, but those moves take talent and the ability to endure some serious chafing.
The class didn’t introduce me to my inner pinup or anything. But it did remind me that, after the conference calls and client memos are completed, we don’t just have to be in lawyer mode all the time. We can be athletic, or adventurous, or goofy. Or maybe even sexy—and not just on Halloween.

Allison Peryea is a shareholder attorney at Leahy Fjelstad Peryea, a boutique law firm in downtown Seattle that primarily serves community association clients. Her practice focuses on covenant enforcement and dispute resolution. She is a longtime humor writer with a background in journalism and cat ownership. You can reach her by email at Allison.Peryea@leahyps.com.

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