Reinventing Mona by Jennifer Coburn Page 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