Puma is the new term for female pole-dancers over the age of 40. Apparently I've been cutting-edge for a couple of years now, and didn't know it. I'm still trying to absorb what being cutting-edge feels like. (Sore? Out-of-shape? Old? Nope, don't want to go with any of those.)
When I joined this craze (movement?), everyone snickered when I said I was taking pole-dancing classes. Some seemed appalled. No longer. With a name attached to us - a cool, strong, feline name at that - no one dares to laugh!
I throw out names of pole tricks (Gemini, Extended Thigh Hold, Superman) and spins (Carousel, Butterfly, One-Legged Fireman), thrilled that I not only speak this foreign language, but can actually demonstrate it. Understand, this isn't something I expected to take up - not in my 40's, 30's or even 20's. I'm the least athletic girl around. Remember grade school sports teams? When everyone got "picked" by the two teams? My best friend, Mary, and I were always the last ones left and we weren't so much chosen as used as leverage. "I'll take Mary if you'll take Susan - after all, you got Cheryl." Do I remember this with shame? With sadness? No; I always felt sorry for the team that got stuck with me. Not only was I that bad at sports, I couldn't have cared less. I was always the kid whose mother was yelling at her, "Put down that book and go outside and play!" My idea of hell was any sort of exercise that didn't involve music or mattresses (only slow music at that).
But here I am, with actual arm muscles that are not only visible, but useful, and abs that allow me to climb a pole, lean all the way back, stretching my arms to the floor, then easily pull myself back up to a sitting position. I bear no relation to the woman I have always been. So who the hell am I now? No - wait - I just found out. I am Puma. Hear me roar!
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