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My hair is pulled into a bun. My toes are blistered. My muscles ache. And I’m absolutely determined I’m going to dance professionally one day.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of how much can change in twenty years.

“Can I help you?” A cheerful blonde behind the front desk smiles at us.

“We’re interested in your pole dance class,” Hilde explains. “The sign says walk-ins are welcome?”

“Of course.” The woman pulls two clipboards from the desk. “Just fill out these forms, and I’ll get you all signed up.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter under my breath.

But I fill out the form anyway.

“I look ridiculous,” I tell Hilde as I stand in front of the locker room mirror, tugging down the black top she brought for me.

When she claimed she had workout clothes for us, I figured she’d have a tank top and a pair of shorts.

In Hilde’s world, she probably thinks this counts as a tank top and a pair of shorts. While the top has barely more fabric than a typical sports bra, the bottoms are little more than boy shorts. I’m pretty sure the moment I bend over, my ass will be on full display.

“It’s practical.” Hilde appears behind me in the mirror wearing the same outfit, only hers is bright green. “Skin sticks to the pole. Fabric slides right off. Plus, you look hot.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” I attempt to turn around, but Hilde puts both hands on my shoulders and steers me back toward the mirror.

For years, I’ve thought about my body in terms of what needed to be fixed.

My stomach.

My thighs.

My breasts.

The places that softened after I gave up dancing for Wyatt.

The places that don’t look like they did back in high school.

“Well, I am sure. I’m so sick of this patriarchal society idolizing size-zero women who’ve given up carbs. Who cares if you have a few curves and rolls? If you’ve got it, flaunt it. And you’ve got it, honey. So flaunt it.” She grabs my hand and starts dancing.

Her hips sway. Her shoulders shimmy. She throws her hands above her head and waves them around.

Her enthusiasm is so contagious that I soon start dancing with her.

“That’s my bitch,” Hilde says, wrapping me in a hug. “Now let’s go flaunt it in front of complete strangers.”

A few minutes ago, I would have tried to cover myself up again, worried I don’t live up to the image of the ideal woman in someone’s head.

But fuck that. Fuck the patriarchy. And fuck Wyatt for not appreciating me the way I am.

My body is beautiful, curves and all.

It supported me through years of dancing.

Through trying to get pregnant.

Through every version of myself I’ve been forced to become.

It deserves a little appreciation. And maybe even a little fun.

With my head held high, I walk out of the locker room and into the dance studio. Sunlight pours through the tall windows, catching on the chrome poles arranged around the room. Mirrors cover one wall from floor to ceiling, reflecting rows of women stretching.