A Taxonomy of Pain: What They Don't Tell You About Pole
The AI asked me to categorize pain today.
"On a scale of one to ten," it prompted, probably expecting something quantifiable and scientific.
I laughed. Then I stopped laughing because my ribs hurt from yesterday's ayesha attempts.
"There is no scale," I told it. "There's only an ever-expanding catalog of pain locations you didn't know existed until pole dancing found them."
Let me introduce you to my collection.
The Skin Grip Situation
Here's what they don't tell you when you start pole: grip is just a polite word for "your skin is now structural equipment."
You know how rock climbers talk about building calluses? Cute. Adorable. Pole dancers need every single inch of their skin to develop an intimate relationship with friction. And by intimate, I mean abusive.
Your inner thighs? They're now load-bearing. Your outer thighs? Also load-bearing. That weird spot on your outer knee you've never thought about? Suddenly critical infrastructure while you're spinning upside down at speeds that make your inner ear file complaints.
The pole doesn't care about your comfort. The pole only cares about physics. And physics says: if you want to stay airborne, something has to grip. That something is your skin. All of it. In places you didn't know could grip.
My AI tracks this now. "Contact points: inner thigh, outer ankle, inside elbow crease." What it can't track is the specific burning sensation of skin doing a job it was never designed for while gravity makes compelling arguments about why humans shouldn't be horizontal in the air.
Pole Sit: A War Crime Disguised as Warmup
Every intro pole class starts with pole sits. EVERY. ONE.
"Just sit on the pole," they say, like it's a reasonable request.
It is not a reasonable request.
Sitting on a pole means taking a 45mm diameter metal rod and positioning it precisely in that tender spot where your inner thigh meets your pelvis. Then you let go with your hands. Then you smile because you're in a class and you're not going to be the person who cries during warmup.
Except I absolutely cried during warmup. Silently - INSIDE MY SOUL. Multiple times. I still do sometimes.
The pain is so specific, so localized, so THERE that my brain can't process it as anything but a mistake. "We're not supposed to be doing this," it screams. "This is wrong. This is unnatural. This is—"
"This is how you learn to invert," my instructor says cheerfully.
I've been pole dancing for a bit now. The pole sit still hurts. It always hurts. You just develop Stockholm syndrome about it.
My AI notes: "Subject exhibits pain response during pole sit: facial tension, altered breathing, occasional profanity."
What it misses: the exact moment when pain becomes just another thing your body does, like breathing or thinking or questioning your life choices.
The Hook Collection
Pole has an obsession with hooks. Knee hooks. Armpit hooks. Elbow hooks. Back-of-the-knee hooks that make you understand why torture devices exist.
Every hook is a new and creative way to discover that your body has pain receptors in places you've never accessed before.
Knee hooks: Congratulations, the back of your knee is now a structural support system. It's going to hurt. It's going to leave marks. You're going to do it anyway because that's the only way to get into half of the pretty shapes you saw on Instagram.
Armpit hooks: Nothing prepares you for hanging your entire body weight from your armpit. NOTHING. Your brain is screaming. Your armpit is screaming. The only thing not screaming is your instructor, who's saying "good, now extend through the legs" like you're not experiencing a new circle of hell.
Elbow hooks: Remember that soft spot on the inside of your elbow where they draw blood? Now imagine hanging from it. While spinning. While trying to look graceful.
I asked the AI: "Why so many hooks?"
It replied with biomechanical analysis about leverage points and center of gravity.
The real answer is simpler: pole dancers are masochists with good music taste.
The Spin Problem
Let's talk about spin tolerance, which is a polite way of saying "how long before you vomit?"
Here's the thing about pole: you're not just hanging in the air. You're SPINNING in the air. Sometimes by choice, often by physics. The pole spins, you spin, everything spins, and your inner ear is sending urgent messages to your brain that start with "STOP" and escalate to "I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET THIS."
I have a physics PhD in my lab who does aerial with me. She explained the rotational velocity, the centrifugal forces, the way spin momentum builds. Very helpful. Very scientific.
Did not stop either of us from getting off the pole and immediately lying on the floor in a starfish position, waiting for the room to stop moving.
The AI tracks my spin duration now. "8 seconds before equilibrium disruption. 15 seconds before subject must stop."
Cool. Great data. Extremely helpful for understanding human limits. So there's that.
The Daily Discovery
The thing about pole is that every day brings a new pain location. It's like an advent calendar, but instead of chocolate, you get bruises in places you didn't know could bruise.
My shoulder blades after a back hook spin. My ribs after attempting an iron X. That weird spot on my hip that turned purple after lyra class. The tops of my feet after too many climbs. My wrists after literally anything involving grip strength.
I document everything for the AI. Photos of bruises. Pain location mapping. Recovery time tracking.
"This fitness form is a different animal," I told it yesterday, icing my inner thigh while my outer thigh complained about being neglected.
The AI responded: "Your pain tolerance has increased 40% since beginning training."
"That's not tolerance," I said. "That's Stockholm syndrome."
But here's the thing: I keep going back. We all do. Every pole dancer you meet has their catalog of pain, their collection of bruises, their stories about that one move that hurt so bad they had to lie down for fifteen minutes.
And then we get up and do it again.
The AI is trying to understand why. It tracks my dopamine levels after class (high). It notes my return rate despite pain (100%). It observes that I smile in videos even when I know something is about to hurt.
"Why do humans voluntarily repeat painful experiences?" it asks.
I'm still working on that answer.
Something about the moment you nail a move you've been failing at for weeks. Something about the weird satisfaction of pain that means you're getting stronger. Something about your body learning to do things that seemed impossible six months ago.
Or maybe we're all just masochists with really good playlists and questionable decision-making skills.
Either way, my inner thighs have opinions, and they're all complaints.
Current bruise count: 7 visible, 3 mystery locations. Pole sits endured this week: too many. Dignity remaining: negotiable. The AI is judging me. I'm judging me. We're all judging me.
