2005-08-01 - 3:43 p.m.

Shake it, Baby, SHAKE IT.

My belly dance instructor, Ishtara, is a sight to behold. Of course, Ishtara isn�t her real name. Belly dancers, the ones who perform at least, use stage names. They are long and mysterious, often Arabic and frequently difficult to pronounce. Everything surrounding La Danse Oriental is mysterious and exotic. These women dance balancing dangerous things like lit candles and swords and snakes. (Though not at the same time.) They work that whole mystery/danger/seduction thing. Watch them, the good ones anyway, and you�ll understand how Salome was able to persuade Herod to bring her the head of John the Baptist.

My instructor�s real name is Ann. She�s a petite, middle aged English teacher, not the darkly-lined, almond-eyed, olive-complexioned woman I was expecting when I first signed up for lessons. Ann is a fiesty little southern lady with a kickin� figure, a pot belly, and a strict teaching style. Always made-up and manicured, she wears her grey hair pulled back into a long ponytail that falls down her back, and she has a little pursed smile that she directs to people as she dances. She can drop to her knees and lie down flat on the floor, making snake arms the whole way, with a sword perfectly balanced on her head. She is my idol.

Ann has decided that she is going to make my class (which consists of two of my fabulous neighbors and myself with only the occasional appearance of others) into real belly dancers. We haven�t really had the heart to tell her that we are not really willing to perform in front of anybody. Well, at least I�m not. She has plans to teach us a routine involving canes. Next weekend she is having us to her home to watch dancing videos and show us her collection of costumes.

Ann finds belly dancing uses for every clothing article imaginable. She suggests utilizing the current trends in department store scarves and ponchos to be worn around the waist, add some jingly shiny stuff, and voil�!, instant belly dancing couture.

Yesterday, after much searching, I bought a new hip scarf for class. I initiated the scarf quest because I keep shimmying out of my current scarf. I�ll be standing there, shakin� what my momma gave me, and my scarf will be around my ankles. Classy.

This losing-my-scarf issue is really just compounding the belly dance ridiculousness for me, since I pretty much look like a toddler learning to walk when I dance. I am completely uncoordinated. I get my rump moving, and it takes off with a mind of its own.

I�ve also just recently moved up to the proper belly dance attire. For about two months, I went to class wearing either sweats or a brown velour track suit that is way too hip for me, like I�m trying to be J-Lo or something. Finally, Ann chastised me for wearing too much clothing all the time, so I begrudgingly moved on to form fitting yoga pants and the current silk scarf, which had been a present from my mother-in-law from a trip to Italy or the Netherlands or some vacation, and which was sliding off my shiny, lycra-encased ass. So, long story short, off I went to the scarf/belt/poncho departments in search of a new nether-region-covering accessory.

Now, I don�t know about you, but I hate the poncho phenomenon. An idiotic fashion-sheep move, if you ask me. I am always amazed that anyone could be swayed by fashionistas (or whomever is doing this swaying) into wearing something that makes one look as if one is upholstered. And unlike the haute couture world, where fashion trends pass with a quickness that breaks the sound barrier, ponchos will now be cloying to department and discount store fashion until, well, who the hell knows. I guess until they become fashionable again. Just look at Pashminas. We are stuck with them. Body upholstery is here to stay, my friends.

So against my better judgment and my pride, I went in search of the very things in which I hold so much disdain. I scoured a couple places (Shout outs to Target and Marshalls and TJ Maxx!) to no avail, but I hit the tacky motherload when I checked out Walmart.

Behold! A polyester-taffeta-looking poncho (ick) that was all ruffly and had mounds of fringe on one side. It was truly hideous. It came in tye dye (really.) and even hunter safety orange (swear to god). Who the hell would wear this shit? I mean, except for me, on my ass.

I chose the all-black version from the rack, and stood there, amongst the mullets and camouflage, holding it up to my hips and shimmied. It wiggled appreciatively. I headed back to the sewing department and promptly shook all the beaded trims in hopes of finding something jingly so that my ass could be noisy in addition to shiny and ruffled.

After waiting for what seemed like forever at the fabric-cutting table and deciding that I�d never get around to sewing the damn trim anyway, I made my way back to the mile-long lines of America�s finest who always seem to be in this fine shopping establishment. I stood in line sheepishly, worrying that someone would see me buying a ten dollar poncho from Walmart.

So, I did it. I bought the damn thing, much to my chagrin. Let�s just say my belly dance name could be Polyestra.

I tried the wholly tacky business on last night, and I have to say, it is not bad. I almost look like a belly dancer. I even got up the courage to show the hub some of my moves, something that up to now I�ve been refraining from doing, and now I know why.

He could not keep a straight face.

So much for the power of seduction.

The hub says I get �Belly Dancer Face� when I dance. He said I have the same smile that every belly dancer has that we�ve seen at the Haflas.* I�ll be all normal, and then I start doing a step, and I get the face.

* �Hafla is Arabic for party!� as the hub is inclined to repeat.

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