Shimmy, Shimmy, Shake!

Week two of burlesque classes involves clustering around what has to be the tiniest laptop with the tinniest speakers in existence trying to watch short clips that will help us understand the origins of burlesque and give us some clues about choosing a prop and developing our alter egos. I have a strong idea about my alter ego’s personality, a vague sense that it shouldn’t be allowed out in public and not even the vaguest hint about what her name might be.

During the week I did practice my dance. In fact I ponied up, applied a skimpy outfit, did my hair and makeup and performed our little routine for Charles after the kids had gone to bed. Before I went to get ready I asked him to clear me some space in the family room. When I came back I found about two square feet of clear space directly in front of his chair. I rolled my eyes and explained that he would not be receiving a lap dance. A larger space was hastily cleared. Then I laid out the ground rules. If you laugh, you’re dead. If you criticise, you’re dead. If you look remotely sceptical about any part of the performance, you will be severely maimed and left for dead. Yes you’re allowed to tell your friends.

And then I take my place and wait. The dance starts with my back to the audience and I have maybe two seconds while Charles cues the music. I almost make a run for it. But then I swallow my fear and turn, starting the dance. As soon as my eyes hit Charles I lose almost all of my nervousness. He is wearing that stunned half smile I imagine men reserve for those infrequent moments in their lives when amazingly erotic things take place. Things like bursting in on two women making love, stumbling across frisky nymphs skinny dipping in sun-dappled pools…that sort of thing. His eyes are full of wonder and a hint of disbelief that he’s being allowed to watch this. Sixty seconds in and that’s all the routine we’ve learned.

“I don’t care,” says Charles, “Just ad lib it.”

And so I do. Adult situations ensue.

So here we are back at burlesque classes for week two and this week we’re joined by the rather aptly named Deb Delicious. First up we gather to watch various burlesque-related clips. Some of it is so amazingly risqué that I feel a little like a teenager watching porn. After watching the clips it’s time to learn how to twirl nipple tassels. This is a lot easier to do than it sounds. Really all you do is pin the tassels to your bra and bounce. Lunge to the right and they spin clockwise. Lunge to the left and they’ll spin anti-clockwise. It’s a neat little trick. What’s a lot harder is getting them to spin in alternate directions by shimmying your breasts. I shimmy like I’ve been tasered to no avail. All I manage to do is make my tassels look like they’re in the throes of an epileptic fit. Deb Delicious can do the most amazing breast shimmying I’ve ever seen and her tassels obliging spin in alternate directions. It is completely mesmerising and totally soul-destroying. I have to stop and watch – which is a much better use of my time because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to do that.

Before we leave Miss Kitka impresses upon us the need to come up with our alter ego names and props. I feel horribly pressured because I'm nowhere near coming up with a name, so I race home and immediately start working on it. I start by typing “burlesque name generator” into google. There are quite a few but my favourite is at http://www.empty-handed.com/archive/burlesque/burlesque.html This site just throws up random burlesque names – some are worthy of glittery billboards in Vegas, others are purely the giggle factor. I flirt with something involving Kitten or Kitty, which has always been Charles’ nickname for me. Unfortunately Kitty or Kitten is about the cheesiest burlesque name in existence. That and anything Rose.

Clearly my mind is working on the name issue even while I sleep because a few days later I wake up at three in the morning and announce that my new burlesque name will be Ginger Storm. Charles’ response is, “Huh? Okay. Ginger Storm. Sure.”

The next morning I wake up and announce I have a burlesque name.

“I know,” Charles says a mite smug, “Ginger Storm.”

“No, Ginger SNAP,” I giggle.

I get an eye roll before he goes to have his shower but the name sticks and the feedback so far has been pretty positive. The name also works with my prop – a riding crop. So I have a name, I have a prop, and I can twirl my nipple tassels. And thus concludes week two of burlesque…

Get Your Shimmy On

The number of official comments and followers I have on this blog would suggest that maybe four people start reading it and two actually finish it (and one of those two will be a paranoid Pippa checking up to see what I wrote about her). Mind you, when I separate from my husband and stop writing the blog suddenly there are people I didn’t even know had access to it who start calling me up and asking me why I’ve stopped writing and when the next instalment will be.

Well I stopped writing because my husband left me – hard to be witty and jovial when you’re feeling like one of life’s great losers. And when will the next blog be? Well that would be NOW.

So getting things back on track suffered a minor setback with the whole SEPARATION but since then I’ve managed to turn (some) things around. As I write, all three laundry hampers are empty, the only dirty dish in the house is the cup I’m drinking out of and it’s been at least three nights since I had to call in emergency takeaway so my family didn’t starve to death. I even have the ingredients for tonight’s dinner in the fridge as I type. Plus the kitchen and the bathroom are clean, I’ve cleaned and vacuumed my car and the living and dining room are looking quite tidy. Household wise, I’m doing fairly well.

Then there was diet and exercise. Well the diet has been okay, not great and so far no real weight loss. I’m chalking this up to nursing my sorrows with my good friend Cadbury. Exercise is slowly building up. Tuesday night I mowed the lawn (which was far more epic than first anticipated thanks to all that Indian Summer and rain we had recently). Thursdays and Fridays I walk Charlotte to and from preschool – which is a lot harder than it would be if she wasn’t so taken with the concept of being my personal trainer. “Faster Mama!” “We can’t go home yet, I’m not tired!” (That’s because you’re in the stroller that I’m pushing). Speaking of that stroller – it weighs 12 kilos, James weighs 11 and Charlotte weighs 20+. So I’m pushing about 45 kilos – a tidy workout really – not that Ms Brat will give me any credit for that.

So I did promise you that I would complete a series of physical challenges during March on my way to getting fit and I also promised that I would make Pippa come too. Our first brand new activity is, somewhat ironically, an activity that Ms Pippa has suggested. We’re doing burlesque. YouTube it if you have no idea what I’m talking about and for those even less inclined to look it up, it’s a very gaudy sort of erotic dance. Think Chicago. Sequins and beads, shaking of T and A, bawdy big band music.

I am so nervous about doing this class that I wake up with night sweats in the week leading up to our first class. I have visions of myself, rapidly heading into middle age, post-two kiddies body and about ten years since I last went clubbing, surrounded by lithe young whipper snappers with Playboy-worthy bodies doing my best to pull my shattered self esteem together and jiggle in a way that might be attractive to someone somewhere while they giggle behind their feather boas. Bitches. I hate them already.

When I actually show up to class, I realise pretty quickly that I am far off the mark. Everyone that shows up is as nervous as I am and we all huddle and chat, pretending to ignore the music filtering through from the class before ours. I doubt any of them are in their twenties and none of them are the atypical bimbo type. My confidence perks up a little. When we’re ushered in we’re confronted by our teachers – who are wearing pink polo shirts and tights. So much for glamour. Before we start we sit in a circle and we talk about how we found out about the class and why we’re there. Then we have to go around and say what makes us feel sexy and what makes us feel unsexy. Before we start our teacher, Miss Kitka, emphasises that we’re talking about what makes us feel SEXY not HORNY.

Ironically the stuff that makes us feel sexy is almost universal – looking good, nice clothes, nice lingerie, perfume, makeup, confidence and having people compliment us or appreciate us. No shattering of clichés for this lot. But what makes people feel unsexy varies a great deal. When it’s my turn, I don’t talk about tracksuits and ugh boots (which are quite unsexy in my opinion) but instead I mention nasty comments and bitchiness – nothing can shatter my confident, sexy mood faster than that. Since they’re all nodding and smiling in agreement I figure they feel the same and hopefully those things will be absent from the class.

And now it’s time to get our jiggle on. We start by – well I suppose the only accurate word for it is – “strutting” in a circle. Hands on hips, elbows back, breasts out and up, swing those hips to the beat ladies. As we strut we learn how to hip thrust, breast shimmy and grind. It is all deliciously titillating and a number of us are giggling uncontrollably. Almost as soon as we’re done with the strutting we learn how to butt shimmy. Fortunately I know how to do this one thanks to belly dancing. Unfortunately I have the same problem now as I did back then– the instant I try to think about or concentrate on what I’m doing and it’s a bit like blowing a tyre on the highway. The shake starts to be a bit off centre, then it’s horribly exaggerated and finally the material you’re driving with explodes in all directions and you limp to an ungainly halt.

And now we start learning our routine. The smooth moves are set to some very cheesy big band type music and “tawdry” is a fairly accurate description for it. It begs to be danced to by a bunch of floozies. Or us – housewives cleverly disguised as floozies in training. For our dance half the class must sit and be the subject of the dancing while the other half dance. Miss Kitka explains that she used to give people a couple of weeks to get used to the dancing before this bit but then she just figured people could deal with it and get over it. She promises that by the end of the beginner’s course we’ll be able to perform this dance for anyone. For some very weird, unknown reason a mental image of John Howard pops into my head and I get the giggles.

The dance is quite saucy, very teasing and I love it instantly. What I’m not loving is having to perform it for another woman who is clearly deep in shock with her eyebrows half cocked in disbelief at the realisation that she is actually about to be the subject of an erotic dance performed by me. After all, it’s Sunday afternoon at the Irish Club – I’m sure we could find half a dozen slightly inebriated rednecks who will wear that stupid grin of masculine appreciation while we grind away. Never mind, deep shock it is. Not a single woman in the room looks like next month’s Playboy pinup. And yet I can confidently say that every single one of them is managing to dance in an extremely enticing way which makes me look away and blush quite a bit. Burlesque is not just about the moves, it’s about the feeling and emotion behind it too. And what makes it so exciting is the fact that we’re all about the tease and showing off our feminine charms – this is not a lap dance designed to harvest a five dollar bill as fast as possible.

By the end of the class I’m totally hooked. It’s not often you walk into a dance class for a new style of dancing and feel instantly at home with it and confident that you’ll be able to master it. We’re given a bunch of homework – pick out a burlesque name, think of a prop to go with the name, and practice everything we’ve learned today. Pippa has already thought of hers – she’s “Dolly Pegs” and she’s going to make her own saucy little housewife apron to go with her routine. I have not a clue what my name will be but I’m almost 100% sure my prop will be a riding crop. And I can’t wait to go home and practice…