300 sandwiches

Scene from our run-through on Sunday (I’m on the right, kneeling). I was an hour late to the 10am-6pm practice because I tried to go to a birthday party AND have drinks with a date the night before–after 8 hours of rehearsing on Saturday, of course.

ALRIGHT FINE. So I picked on 300 sandwiches girl before realizing, yeah, I’m kind of an overachieving people-pleaser like that too.

It’s kind of like being a really desperate actress who gets dismissed from an audition and just won’t accept it. “You want sexier? I can do sexier!!! You need a German accent? I CAN DO THAT. Someone who makes expertly crafted sandwiches? Hang on, let me go to the library and get a book on that, BRB.”

Lately I’ve been racing back and forth between my day job, Bellyqueen rehearsals, coffee with a guy I like (and am trying to impress while sweaty and exhausted and adjusting my outfit on the way back to work–yes, we have to get our coffee to go because I was supposed to be back at the office 10 minutes ago, ahhh), day job again, dance classes, Fireblossoms rehearsal, night job, night course, work study, pole classes, more dates with boys I am trying to impress while scattered and exhausted… and y’all, I am THISCLOSE to failing at all of it, at any given time.

I can feel it–that little wobble on the tightrope. The expression on somebody’s face when I have to apologize yet again for having to leave early or arrive a little late. The schizophrenic list of shit I have to do the next day that flashes through my head just before I fall asleep, like that creepy scene in a Clockwork Orange, and I get so overwhelmed that I start thinking about calling in sick to everything because it’s too, too much. The Failure is lurking, waiting for me to slip up.

Luckily, it’s almost over; the Bellyqueen show is Friday and Saturday. But it’s really made me question why I do this to myself. I overbook, over-commit, overload, all the time. Why? WHYYYYYY.

Why do I put all this pressure on myself to have a date after a 14 hour day, and look perfect and act charming when I’m exhausted?

Why does it feel wrong to have 3 hours to myself at home, alone? Like I should be anywhere, doing anything else?

Why do I have to throw achievement in my bucket at all times to feel like a full person?

The voice in the back of my head is always saying, “Do more, work harder, be better,” and if I’m honest with myself, if I had a boyfriend who really liked sandwiches, I would probably be doing that on top of everything too.

Balls. I can’t be the only one like this… right?

Are you guys overachievers too? How do you decide which stuff to prioritize? When does pole start falling by the wayside–when you have a hot date, or only when work stuff comes up?

XOXOXO,

A very frazzled Cathy.

She didn’t feel sexy enough.

Reenactment of what this girl's boyfriend looks like. NOT sandwich-worthy. And possibly undead. — Reenactment of what this girl’s boyfriend looks like. NOT sandwich-worthy. And possibly undead.

Jeeeeeeeeeeeez o’petes this makes me sad.

First, the whole story makes me feel yucky. Guy tells girlfriend, “Babe, you are 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring.”

Girl “jokingly” starts a blog documenting her sandwich-making pipeline to a rock. Except, how much of a “joke” is this if she’s calculating the time breakdown of sandwich making/distribution so that she can be engaged and married before her mid-thirties?

How much of a joke is it if she’s seriously and in earnest using words like “wife material”? How secure is she in herself and her relationship if she’s freaking out at a pole dancing class because “not looking sexy enough” means her boyfriend is going to look at other girls?

None of this seems particularly funny to me.

Not that I’m being judgy here–I completely empathize with her. But let’s just call it what this whole sandwich experiment is: a tactic to win love and approval from somebody who should already love and approve of you. And that’s fucked up. It’s not cute. It’s not a joke. And if somebody dangles a ring in front of you like it’s some kind of carrot on a stick for you to prove that you’re “wife material,” I’ll have to quote Dan Savage and advise you to DTMF.

As far as this woman’s experience with pole dancing, as a teacher, I can tell you she’s hardly in the minority for crying after. Girls get really down on themselves in beginner classes for not being able to achieve a stripper aesthetic within their first hour. Which is crazy to me, because who is even looking at you? Your boyfriend is not here! This is about learning tricks and having fun, and sweating a little in the process. If you already walked in looking like a rock star on the pole, why bother taking a class? It’s about learning and having fun, not being perfect or using the class as a litmus test for how hot you are.

If there is any man-related sexy to be gained from pole dance, it comes from the confidence you get through expressing yourself. Chances are, as a beginner, you don’t have a pole at home, and no men are allowed in the studio. All you take with you when you finish a class is how you feel. If you come out down and crying over not looking sexy enough, what’s the point?

Oh and NEWSFLASH: most men don’t even find what I do on the pole now sexy. What they really like to see is what I promise you everyone can already do: pop your booty, flip your hair, and smirk like you know exactly what you’re doing.

You don’t need a class for that. (Seriously, try it the next time you’re at a club: make eye contact with a guy, smile, and do a little head roll while you’re dancing. That is NOT a banana in his pants, ladies).

stephanie smith — Okay so IRL he has a tan, but STILL.

Moral of the story: if you have a boyfriend, he should love you. Sandwiches are bonus. Pole dancing is bonus. And if you DO want to do these things, for god’s sake, do them because you genuinely want to. Life is too short for crying after class.

OH, just wondering though… can we all speculate as to which studio she went to? Clues: Midtown, and the class is likely called “Climb and Spin”… GO!

Happy (SELFISH) twirls!

Cathy