They merely stretch the truth..
Although I had friends who made quite a few pretty dollar bills while they were at it, I wonder sometimes, while driving on that stretch of highway past the gentlemen's club, what it was in my upbringing that made me never even consider it. All those hours I spent around priests? My short haired women's studies professors spouting Adrienne Rich? I don't know.
In Zumba class the music is loud and it's hot. I've always danced- Ballet, pom-poms, nightclubs. The Zumba instructor was my funk aerobics teacher for years at the gym. I know her and how she moves so when she calls LOWER! SHOULDERS BACK! ABS TIGHT! I comply. I never take my eyes off the shimmy of her hips. I feel my long hair brush against my shoulders and the bass is booming and I bring it down and I turn it in a circle.
I zoom past the strip club which sits, with a healthy dose of symbolism, at the end of a dead end street. I exhale. Relief. I am grateful that I have sons. I will not have to teach a daughter the syncopated steps of how to love a woman's body. Really love it. Every curve and soft handful. To shake it to the music but also to recognize when the beat shifts and it's time for the dance to slow down.
