Reinventing Mona (10 page)

After she shot her goal, Jenna came back to help me off the ground by extending her hand and giving me a firm pull. “You got hustle, I’ll give you that, but in a real game you’d’ve gotten called for that,” she told me.

The Kickin’ Chicks forgave my many illegal moves, writing me off as Greta’s talentless friend who could fill in for an occasional low turnout scrimmage. I wasn’t especially surprised when the only invitation I received from the team was to come watch them play during the season. That and to join them for a round of beers after the scrimmage.

“To Mona,” Greta lifted her beer mug.

“To Mona,” my soccer mates joined in.

“You don’t even know what I’m toasting her for, you bunch of lushes. Let me finish the toast, then we’ll drink.”

“Here, here,” shouted Brooke. “To the patience of lushes.”

“Now, you probably won’t believe this, but my dear friend Mona did
not
want to play soccer this morning.”

They all burst into laughter. “Well, the girl sure was filled with desire on the field,” Jenna said, chuckling.

“Okay, so I’m not an athlete,” I defended with mock annoyance.

“Don’t get me wrong, girl. You got the soul of an athlete,” she added.

Brooke’s laughter escaped through her nose. “Just not the feet.”

“Anyway.” Greta stretched the word to regain the floor. “Mona tried something a little different. She went a little beyond her comfort zone, and I, for one, am very proud of her.” She lifted her mug to let the others know that now they could toast.

“And let’s not forget about our newest Kickin’ Chick at the goal today.” Mary Ellen raised her mug. “Some nice saves there, Greta... Loooooking gooood, baby!”

Greta feigned embarrassment, holding her hand toward her chest as if to say “who me?” She batted her lashes, then snapped. “You all are full of it. I gave up one too many goals.” One sneaked past her.

“Hey, Mona,” Jenna switched gears. “I meant to ask you. Y’ever box?”

Jenna nodded, unfazed by my shock at the question. “Yeah, you know?”

“Hello. Did you see me out there on the field today? I’m hardly an ass-kicker.”

“Girl, you
are
an ass-kicker,” Jenna replied.

Brooke couldn’t help adding, “Not a ball kicker, though.”

“Nah, seriously, girl, you only shoved me like twenty times out there,” Jenna said.

“Yeah, you shoved me, too,” Mary Ellen added. “And we were on the same team.”

“I’m so sorry!”

“Nah,” she dismissed with the wave of a hand. “Not like anyone got hurt but you. I wonder if you might not get a kick out of going to the gym and beating the shit out of a punching bag.”

“I doubt it.”

“Eh, don’t write it off so quickly. Give it a try. It’s a hell of a workout. You go to any gym these days and check out the boxing classes and they’re like ninety percent women.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” I lied. “Thanks for letting me play with you today. I had fun.”

That evening, I headed toward the beach to unwind and catch one of the first sunsets of the new year. I predicted it would be a brush of grape cotton candy, but would have been equally satisfied with a flaming sinker where everyone on the beach would stop and applaud when the last sliver of gold disappeared behind the Pacific. I decided not to shower, somewhat savoring the dirt marks on my body and loose blades of grass clinging to my ponytail.

“Good evening to you, Miss Mona,” said a deep male voice in front of the house. I turned from locking the gate to see a full head of white hair and a forest green alligator cardigan. It was Grammy’s friend, Captain John. “Lovely evening we’re having.”

“Yes, lovely. Did you and Mrs. Brower enjoy the holiday, sir?”

He knit his brows. “You haven’t heard.”

I shook my head.

“Anne died in September, dear. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my God! No,
I’m
sorry. Please accept my condolences, sir. If I had heard I certainly would have stopped by to pay my respects. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, dear. She had a good life and we had many fine years together. We do have to thank the good Lord for our time with loved ones.” He looked older than I’d remembered. “It was good to see you, Mona. Happy New Year to you.”

“Yes, Happy-Yes, it was good seeing you, too, sir.”

* * *

When I returned home, my message light was blinking. “You have two messages,” said my electronic friend.

“Hi, it’s me. Thanks for being such a great sport today. I know you didn’t want to play soccer, but you did it for me and I wanted to tell you that I really do appreciate it. You’re true blue, Mona, and I’m so happy we’ve reconnected. On another note entirely, I’ve been meaning to ask whatever happened with The Animal? Did he freak out when he found out you’re not Claudia Schiffer? For the record, I think you’re just as pretty as—” Beep.

My answering machine automatically cuts people off before they can finish a lie. I had to pay a bit extra for the feature, but I’ve found it to be worth every penny.

“Hey, Mona. It’s Mike. I need to go with you to this class tomorrow night and, errrr, audit. You know, so you feel you got a friend by your side. To support you in your three hours of need. No, seriously, good luck. Take lots of notes for me. Really. Lots of notes, ‘cause I’m going to wanna hear every detail, got it?  I know—” Beep.

I picked up the phone and dialed. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. “Hello,” he answered.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“Your message. You got cut off right after you said, ‘I know.’ What do you know?”

“Oh, hey.” I could see him just now registering my voice. “Look, this isn’t a great time. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“Oh, yeah sure. No problem. We can talk whenever. No big deal. Go back to what you were doing,” I hung up. Or
who
you were doing. The poor woman, I thought, imagining his flavor of the week sprawled beside him. Does she have any idea what she’s in for with The Dog?

The ballet studio was nestled in an alley in Pacific Beach off a main street lined with trendy bars, vintage clothing shops, and funky restaurants. Ten minutes late, I ran up the staircase into a sauna-smelling white lobby where a thin woman with her hair in a black bun sat at a reception desk. Three swanlike women in leotards and ballet slippers clustered around the desk, reaching their wiry arms toward their extended feet. The pounding of my sneakers announced the arrival of an imposter before I’d ascended the stairs. In my ponytail and sweatpants, the straps of my high heel shoes dangling from my right hand, I was obviously not there for a ballet class, but was still reluctant to state my reason for being on their turf.

“I’m here for, um, the class,” I said as embarrassment washed over me like a wave.

“Exotic dancing?” The bun perked, exchanging amused glances with the other ballerinas.

“Vicki’s taking that class,” one said to another.

“I’ve got to ask her what she thinks.”

“Right that way.” The bun pointed down the hallway.

I turned the corner of the hallway and peeked in a small glass window. Women were sitting on the floor in a circle, lips moving, hair being braided, laughing. A sisterhood of wannabe strippers. This was crazy. I looked to see where the nearest exit was, but to leave the building, I’d have to pass by Swan Lake again. I could imagine them giggling uproariously as I dashed by with my swollen eyes and five-inch platform shoes.

Buying the shoes on Saturday was humiliating enough. When the posh-looking elderly sales woman at Neiman Marcus asked if she could assist me, I told her I was having a difficult time finding the brand of shoe I was instructed to bring to class. “I’ve never heard of this line, but I need to find CFM shoes,” I explained. Her face quickly became as white as the silk scarf tied around her loose neck. She placed a hand on my shoulder and turned me so both of our backs faced the showroom.

“Someone is playing a little joke on you, dear,” said the saleswoman.

“No, they’re not,” I said. “I’m taking a class and I was told I need to bring CFM shoes.”

“I don’t know what kind of class you’re taking, dear, but I assure you, Neiman Marcus does not carry that type of shoe. I suggest you try Colette’s Closet downtown.” Not only did Colette’s carry Come Fuck Me shoes, but skimpy lingerie and accessories that all shouted the same general invitation.

The door to the ballet studio opened and a breeze of laughter rushed out. As always, I missed the joke. “Oh, hi!” The teacher waved, a honey blond cheer captain type. “We’re getting started now. Have a seat. You must be Mona.”

“Why?” slipped out. It was bad enough that Mike enrolled me in a stripping class, but had he called in advance to describe me to the instructor? He was probably trying to impress her with his Mr. Sensitivity routine. I could hear him now. “My dear, sweet, frumpy, and awkward friend will be attending. Please be gentle with her.” I became enraged at the thought.

“Excuse me, what didya say?” said Tabitha. I could see why she was successful at stripping. Not only was she adorable looking, she seemed so thoroughly happy to chat with me. I almost handed her a twenty to keep looking at me.

“Oh, um, I just wondered why you said I must be Mona. Did, um, someone tell you I was coming?”

Her face lit up with a touchdown smile. “The attendance sheet did, sweetie pie!” Tabitha held up her clipboard. Yours was the only name I didn’t check off yet. Have a seat in the circle. We’re going ‘round telling our names and what we hope to learn tonight.”

I sat on the hardwood floor, surrounded by fellow classmates. At the front of the room was a wall of mirror; at the back was a ballet barre. Pushed in the corner was what I later learned was a port-a-pole. Much to my relief, looking at my classmates was not like flipping through
Playboy
magazine. A sixty-something woman introduced herself as Myra and got a laugh from the circle of women when she said that taking the class was the last stop before filling her husband’s prescription for Viagra. Her oversized T-shirt bore an illustration of a cat sitting atop a pile of books. “So many books, so little time,” it lamented. We were all conspirators. Secret keepers for one another. Certainly no one in Myra’s book club knew she was at a stripping class. When her husband’s boss asked if he had any special plans for the weekend, he surely didn’t answer that he was going to witness his wife’s first striptease, hoping it would help cure his impotence.

Kelly wore black Bettie Page bangs and multiple tattoos on her arms. Pale foundation accentuated the heavy black liner on her top eyelids. Chewing a fresh piece of Juicy Fruit, Kelly said she was getting married in three weeks and wanted to surprise her new husband on their wedding night. “Ahhhh,” the women sweetly sighed as if she’d just sold her hair to pay for his watch chain.

Hidden beneath a mane of tangled brown hair was Olivia, a stocky woman who said it was her sixth time taking the class. “I’m an addict,” she said. I refrained from leading the group in “Hi, Olivia.” For the last three years, Olivia worked at the metal supply company where they manufacture poles for strip clubs. Two years ago, she filled in for a delivery guy and became fascinated with the club scene. “It was a forbidden underworld of sexy women and ogling men, where all the rules of the outside world don’t apply. I was hooked from go.”

Fern was in her forties and looked like how Cher might have turned out if she hadn’t enjoyed the comforts of fame. Her long frizzy hair screamed, “I bartended in Reno one too many years,” and her eyebrows were so over-plucked, they looked almost terrified to try to grow back. She had the kind of face that was always smoking, even when there was no cigarette dangling from her dry lips. Fern said her husband promised he’d stop going to strip joints so often if she learned to dance for him. He even bought an extra large coffee table with a detachable pole in the center.

“Wasn’t that a million dollar idea?” offered Olivia, who quickly let it be known that she was the ultimate authority in all things exotic. Over the course of the evening, poor Tabitha couldn’t get two sentences out without Olivia piping in to share
her
favorite strip music,
her
online source for clear-heeled platform shoes, and
her
demonstration of the hip roll.

“I love to dance. I love making love, and I love feeling sexy,” said a middle-aged Latina whom I imagined managed a family restaurant by day. “When I heard about the class, I told my lover we got to do this for each other,” Maria said, gesturing to the woman beside her.

Together? But they don’t let men—ooooooh, she’s a lesbian. I see now. As must be Ginny, the embarrassed-looking woman beside her.

Vicki was the only one in the class who actually wanted to be a stripper, which I wondered if her ballet friends knew. “I’ve been dancing all my life, but I could never join a ballet company.” She gestured to her cantaloupe boobs. We all laughed, a bit envious of such problems. “I dance with a modern jazz company but the pay is for shit so I need to supplement,” she explained. Vicki was exactly what one would expect a stripper to look like, right down to the perfectly arched Hollywood brows and platinum blond hair. She had the Paris Hilton look, walking the thin line between sexy and cheap.

“I’ve got three kids under six and I need to wake things up in the bedroom or my sex life is going to be finished,” said an exhausted-looking woman.

“And what about you, Mona?” Tabitha asked.

“Oh, um, okay,” I stammered, hoping my body would move more skillfully than my mouth. “I guess I just want to get in touch with that, you know, that other side of myself.”

“Your untapped sexuality,” Tabitha said.

“Um, yeah, I guess.” How humiliating that she could immediately see how “untapped” my sexuality was. It was plain to see I was as appealing as a keg of old, tepid beer.

“Within each of us is a sexual goddess who is waiting for us to connect with her,” Tabitha delivered through her thousand-watt smile. “Ten years ago everyone was talking about the inner child, which is totally great, too, but modern women have disconnected from the power of their sexuality because we want to be judged for our substance, not our style. Don’t get me wrong. I am all for substance, but embracing substance doesn’t have to mean sacrificing our style, our sexuality, that special something that makes us light up a room when we walk into it.”