When I found myself wrestling heartbreak at nearly 60, I did what every other Southern, dignified, and classy woman would do.
I took up stripping Burlesque dance.
Not in public (as of yet) mind you, but in the privacy of my back-up home. For a refresher, a back-up home is a condo or similar she-shed for women to escape when life plunges from fabulous to fraught, from life support to do-not-resuscitate.
I marvel at how despair loosens its grip when one is in her living room falling over the furniture as she attempts the Leg Hair Flip. Only to need a heating pad the next morning in hopes of slackening the tight-ass knot between her neck and shoulder.
Women of my vintage need a warm-up before attempting a Linda Blair swivel of head. Lesson learned. Women my age also need a spotter in the home when tackling the Burlesque chair routines that defy human musculature.
But who could resist a form of exercise that bills itself as, “A fun and sexy way to lose the pounds whilst finding and unleashing your inner goddess.”
The only thing I managed to unleash was my inner bursitis.
In order to “sin” balance the Beginner Burlesque bump-and-grind, I upped my prayers and even knelt as I did so. Especially after my “outfits” arrived via Amazon Prime.
At that point, I figured I’d better call Mama, a woman living a graceful life in Spartanburg with her husband, my dad, for more than six decades of wedded enchantment. Best to run things by her as, for some immature reason, I still seek her approval.
“Burlesque?” she said and we both cracked up laughing.
“Only at home. Not in front of actual people. You should see my feathered black tutu and fishnets. Soon, if I can master a few moves, I’ll perform at Croaker’s Rest Home.”
Oddly, my Bible-loving, Project Runway-watching mother seemed fine with this. “You sound so happy,” she said. “I love hearing you upbeat.”
I didn’t tell her about the song I play for my burgeoning four-minute routine. Somehow Michael Jackson’s Dirty Diana could be met with a dollop of judgment.
Instead, I changed the subject. “I also signed up for online Spanish classes.”
“Is that part of the routine? You do the Burlesquing in Spanish?”
“Not exactly. You do the Spanish whilst scampering from your real life in hopes of entering an Eat Pray Love state of zen. Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”
She cleared her throat, and I knew a lecture was poised to roll from her lips. “You need to focus on writing your novels. When I went to Spain with your daddy, we ran into all kinds of naked people. I made him take me into every church we saw to cleanse my eyes and mind.”
I’d heard this story many times, how Mama opened the hotel blinds to see the view, but what met her eyes instead were a dozen topless and tanning…goddesses.
“Well, I am writing. I’m penning my first blog post after we hang up.”
“Don’t write about me,” she said and laughed.
So, this is it, my debut blog, but I’m calling it a column because I loathe the word blog.
It’s the sound of it that sucks the merriment from my writing and reminds me of words such as smog, hog, slog, bog, and worst of all, jog.
Everybody and their granny seem to have one and some of the topics are spot-on, while others…well…who wants to read about “Ugly Renaissance Babies,” or “Hungover Owls?”
Then again, who wants to read about old ladies dancing in tutus to Dirty Diana?
My goal for Susan Uncensored is to engage and encourage y’all with humorous and inspirational stories, and to beg you all to submit YOUR funny stories, along with those uplifting and enlightening experiences. This is the space to showcase humanity at its best—and most humorous.
It’s also a space where from time to time, I’ll hawk those novels Mama was talking about.
Please contact me with your lively gems and stories at [email protected].
Hasta que nos encontremos de nuevo. Until we meet again.