University has brought me to a pretty low point in my life where I, for lack of a better verb, cringe at the very thought or notion of anything that may pertain to physical fitness and exercise. Could it be my gluttonous eating habits and infatuation with French fries or perhaps my sheer propensity for steering towards a cyclic routine of slothfulness? I have decided that it is an amalgamation of the two — and a deadly one.
February is quite an eventful month, considering it’s the shortest; we celebrate Black history, eagerly anticipate a rodent from buttfuck nowhere’s deceptive prediction while continuing to get pounded by mother nature’s wrath, observe my birth, and indulge in the most perverse and lustful consumer holiday ever created. Those who are single may be embittered and envious of the exceptionally delusional who seek pride through their greedy accumulation of attention on this bastardized day known as that of St. Valentine.
Now that the seven deadly sins have been identified and applied, it is difficult to believe that something good could come from this month (besides my birthday, that is). And you know what? Something did, something I never thought I would do in my entire life. I was incredibly hesitant to take on this arduous and esteem robbing task: participating in a burlesque class at Flirty Girl Fitness.
Was I prepared to sacrifice myself on the altar of dignity to have material for an article in The Varsity? The answer is yes. But was I prepared for the physical activity required to complete the assignment? Hell to the no. To help paint a clear picture, the extent of my activeness is cruising down grocery store aisles while selecting fatty foods and breathlessly attempting to make it up the daunting stairs of Alumni Hall. What you all really want to know is whether or not I came through and manned the fuck up. Well, I did.
It was a frigid Wednesday and my meal of choice prior to the class consisted of half a cheese pizza and two cups of pop. You see where this is going? I was running a little late when I finally faced the cold and made my way towards Flirty Girl Fitness. It’s a good thing their sign is fittingly bright pink and nearly impossible to miss.
The staff was extremely welcoming in spite of our tardiness and got us set up quickly. The female-only establishment exuded an air of freshness, confidence, and hospitality with their big smiles and enthusiasm. We entered the entirely mirrored studio, which was adorned with pearly pink workout balls and rosy floor mats, and were greeted by our burlesque instructor, Teresa Lombardi.
Before jumping right into the workout regimen, I surveyed and took note of the complicated movements Teresa demonstrated as the rest of the class mimicked her. The ladies were learning incredibly quickly and I started to think I might just turn this into an observational piece. I mean, my grace doesn’t exactly scream seductress — I suppose my physical gestures shout something more along the lines of crass and uncoordinated.
“Don’t be scared to touch your body,” remarked Teresa while explaining to the ladies that they should be conscious of their arm movements. “You know how you like to be touched, right?” No, not after getting dumped by your boyfriend.
Her openness and great sense of humour made the class all the more enjoyable, as well as comfortable, considering props were about to come out.
The kind of burlesque taught at FGF does not include tassels hanging from breasts, nor any kinky costumes of that sort. The class takes on the conventions of neo-burlesque, which has a wide range of styles, but ours in particular was quick-paced, sexy dancing with a chair. Let me tell you, if those chairs could talk, I wonder what would be the outcome of a conversation between them and a few from Robarts: “Dude, this chick just totally chair effed me right now.” “Oh, some guy just farted on me. I guess it was the Taco Bell he ate at lunch.” I digress.
The soundtrack of the night was exclusively limited to Christina Aguilera’s “Show Me How You Burlesque,” which I probably heard over 20 times that evening. Once I got in on the action and got on one of those chairs, I quickly pulled a Christina myself by making up my own moves, (as opposed to lyrics), to the song. I’m sure I would do her proud with my half-assed gyrating, right?
Teresa, who showed absolutely no signs of fatigue or lack of intensity throughout the class, never ceased to animate her movements with amusing dialogue. While I had big issues with my attempts at straddling and swaying my hips on my chair and the rest of the women had a good grasp of what they were doing, she shouted words of encouragement: “Oh, I love this chair. So sexy!” No, Teresa, that’s what your chair thought of you. I couldn’t love mine because it hated me.
“Don’t panic,” she said. I panicked. “Around, around, around, around,” she articulated. I grew dizzy, lazy, and consistently moved in the wrong direction. “Show me how,” she said with her hands on her breasts, “you burlesque!” Finally, something I could hone. Pathetic? Perhaps. Was I proud of myself? Unbelievably.
When the clock struck nine, the class had ended. “We’ll see you on Friday,” said one woman on her way out, “because we’re coming in for lap dancing.” Please, tell me at what other fitness establishment you would hear such words being spoken.
I had the opportunity to ask some, out of the dozen or so, participants a few questions about their experiences at FGF. “It makes you feel sexy,” said a woman in her mid-twenties, “I’ve grown much more confident and comfortable in doing this in front of anyone.” She and her friend were taking advantage of the one-week free trial period FGF offers to new members, taking 2-3 classes a day to help them decide which was the best for them.
Another mentioned that it “[felt] like being in a club, but without the drinking and creepy guys,” in addition to allowing her to “get in touch with [her] girliness.” The studio embraces the fact that it has classes unlike any other, making it a much more social experience than the average fitness centre. Another was much more drawn to taking a class like this because she just didn’t see herself as a “gym person.”
After everyone else left, I had the fortune of a private lesson with my exceptionally patient instructor Teresa. She mentioned something about positive muscle memory while I complained about my maladroit movements. Uh, yeah. The only thing my body remembered was how to add another knot on the plethora already chilling in my back.
“It takes a legend… to make a star” is the tagline for the recently-released Aguilera film Burlesque. I decided to provide my own for the evening I spent at Flirty Girl Fitness: “It takes a leg lift… to create a soft-tissue injury.”
Teresa took the time to correct every error in my posture by manoeuvring my arms, legs, torso, and back into the precise positions which she had intended for the routine she choreographed herself. Although I should have attempted to memorize the sequence of dance steps and chair seducing, I couldn’t help but watch what was reflected in the mirror for the entire half hour we had together, alone. I felt like the biggest narcissist, but not really, because I was transfixed by her reflection, and not my own.
In the hour and a half I was there, I was on two completely opposite ends of the confidence spectrum. I came in feeling uncomfortable and clumsy, and left harbouring sentiments of poise and sexiness.
