What makes a home a home

I have a pole in my apartment. A thickish pole, wrapped in bristly rope, that divides the living room from the short corridor (in New York terms, "office") leading to the bedroom. Various guests have puzzled over the pole's purpose, but in general, guesses have been narrowed to two things: (1) it's a supporting pole, plain and simple, or (2) it's a water pipe, wrapped in rope to protect against injury from fluctuations in temperature.

But these two things are not what I thought of when I first laid eyes on the apartment nearly two years ago. No, what I thought was much simpler, much more ... primal, you might say: Stripper Pole!

My reaction was so organic, in fact, that as soon as I stepped into the apartment, the broker fast behind me, I could not help but run to the pole, grab it, and spin around it in an acrobatic twirl. (I had been with the broker all of an hour, maybe two. But he was a good sport, this broker -- just sort of smiled and giggled and changed the subject to square footage.)

At the end of my apartment search, the choices had been whittled to two. There was the large-ish one-bedroom duplex with a tiny, walled-off kitchen (a minus -- a maker of crudites, canapés and other party treats must be able to socialize with her party guests) but also a deck off the second floor (a plus). And then there was the pole apartment: a large-ish, wide-open, loft-style thing with exposed brick along one long wall and, of course, the pole.

Now, some would argue that the deck should have won the day. A deck for a reasonable price is hard to find in this city. And a space with enough room for private sun-bathing and barbecuing is even scarcer. But you know who cares about sun-bathing room and primo BBQ action? Pale people (which I am not) and carnivores (which I am sometimes, but not vociferously enough to justify taking a particular apartment). And so, the decision, for me, was pretty much a nondecision.

But now, as happens with so many relationships, my love affair with the pole apartment is winding to its close. In a couple of months, I plan to move from my Hells Kitchen lair (it really is a lair, or maybe "cocoon" is a better word -- point being, the apartment doesn't get much light) to the E.V. or L.E.S., land of cheaper restaurants, more abundant bars and cafes, better boutiques and thrifting opportunities, dog runs for big and bitty dogs, and fewer lost tourists with the tendency to ignore the "walk" part of "sidewalk."

Most friends, when they hear of my imminent move, react with a "cool!" But on a recent pool-playing, whiskey-drinking outing, the reaction from one friend, who I will call Cute Overload's No. 1 Fan (aka CO1F), was more like overt disappointment: "No!!! What about THE POLE?!"

Me: "Well, I'm sure there are other apartments with poles."

CO1F: (whimper)

Me: "Seriously, I've seen other buildings with poles. In this neighborhood, too. Like, Grape & Grain has a pole kinda like mine."

CO1F: (whimper)

But fear not, CO1F, for recently, I found the answer to both our woes: the Peekaboo Pole Dancing Kit!

Yes, now you can have your pole -- and take it with you, too!

Broadsheet (subscription required) did a writeup on it, because apparently this thing was being sold in the little-kiddie toy department of the U.K. chain Tesco, and some family-values peeps got their knickers in a bunch. (Tesco is now selling the pole only as a "fitness" item, away from the toddler aisle.)

Now. Before any of my loyal and generous readers get the smart idea to buy and ship me the Peekaboo Pole, let me just say: thanks, but please, no. After all, I may luck out and find that dream apartment in the E.V. complete with exposed brick and hardwood floors and windows that let in daylight and a built-in pole, in which case a Peekaboo will not be required. And even if not, somehow, the Peekaboo strikes me as the kind of product one must really buy on one's own. Kind of like a leather bustier.

And even then, the pole component of my life may have had its day. After all, my commute is about to get longer, I may soon be going back to school, I am totally coveting a puppy -- who has time for pole twirling with all that?

Comments

[allyn]

poles are a great workout and more fun than, well, let's just say that they're a whole lot of fun... although i must say that one wrapped in bristly rope sounds a bit problematic.

then again, this is coming from a person who pole danced at the Deep End (daytime Burning Man rave camp) until i quite literally ripped the callouses off of my hands.
yeah, i was having fun.

[SDoyle]

I love this post. And I hate it. But mostly love.