Poll

Gymnastics was the only sport any person needed to bother learning. It prepared you for life’s main command: be flexible, and contort yourself whenever necessary. All other sports were mere recreation, an excuse to find a sense of purpose in meaningless competition. But gymnastics was the real deal, both a symbol and the thing it symbolized.

Well, that was Cassandra Newman’s opinion anyway. A gymnast since elementary school and a pole dancer since college, she worshipped the air like astronauts worshipped the ground after being in space too long. It provided temporary freedom and safety in a world that was anything but free or safe. Then when she was back on the ground, well… she did her best to survive. But she only thrived while in a state of suspension; there was no other way.

She tried not to look in the mirror too much and sometimes forgot what she looked like. But the last time she checked, her eyes were aqua blue, her hair a Redwood brown, and her figure as toned and confident as you would expect a gymnast’s body to be. “Beautiful” was such an overused word that she refused to describe herself with it, but objectively speaking, she fit the definition. However, it remained irrelevant at this stage of her life; one technically didn’t need to be attractive to climb to the ceiling.

Although some of the patrons at Jumbo’s Clown Room might disagree. Located in the Thai Town neighborhood of Los Angeles, it was a stuffy little bar that contained a stage for bikini-clad dancers to perform acrobatic feats (nothing too exotic). She had to tell her friends multiple times that it was NOT a strip club, merely a regular bar with a few extra features. Yes, it was sensual, but not in a tasteless way; it promoted body positivity without any accompanying shame or sleaziness. She’d been working there for about a year, and with a few exceptions, she’d enjoyed every night. In the daytime, she was a high school gymnastics coach. She also participated in gymnastics competitions in her spare time, but that was becoming increasingly rare.

“Why don’t you just become an astronaut?” her cheeky little sister Ashley asked on frequent occasions. It was a sort of running inside joke between them.

“It’s not the same. I hate gravity, but not THAT much.” “I guess space is kinda scary.”

“Yeah. Remember the Challenger?” “Mmm-hmm.”

“And Elon Musk.”

“Don’t even get me started.” It would be cool to be the first pole dancer in space though.

Maybe Ashley’s on to something! “I mean, I haven’t ENTIRELY ruled it out. I just want to further my gymnast career first.”

“And pole dancing career.”

“Yes, that too. Then I’ll become the first pole dancer in space.” “That’s the spirit!”

***

Cassandra was unsure whether she could logistically manage coaching, dancing, and competing much longer. It was exhausting both physically and emotionally. But what would she prioritize among the three? Coaching was the most spiritually rewarding and seemed like a worthwhile penance for her years of narcissism (she had been a bit of a mean girl in high school). But it paid poorly, and she definitely didn’t want to do it for the rest of her life. Pole dancing had more financial benefits (people tipped pretty generously when they were drunk and horny), but it was tough to milk into a full-blown career (at least when she still had lots of conservative relatives asking about what sort of “dancing” she did). Competing could always exist as a side hustle, but if she injured herself in the process, she might endanger future opportunities.

She decided not to decide for the time being; she was proud of being a multitasker, even if it caused a heart attack in 30 years. Her typical schedule was as follows: gymnastics coaching Wednesday through Saturday afternoon, Jumbo’s Clown Room late Thursday night through Sunday night, and competitions once a month. Some months she had to forfeit a competition, but usually she was able to stay consistent.

Then there were the days she wasn’t consistent, and she almost fell apart. Why did people insist upon making resolutions they knew they wouldn’t keep? Much to the chagrin of her friends and family, she refused to go to therapy, assuming that some jargon-reliant post-grad student would stuff her mind with false platitudes and vague goals. She knew she was being a bit closed-minded yet also didn’t believe she was wrong; delusions were the antidepressants no medical professional would ever talk about. But Cassandra was sick of delusions and refused to condense her happiness into formulas. Love remained intrinsically sloppy, and she didn’t dare ask it to change its identity; after all, sexual intimacy was primarily enjoyable because of its chaotic nature.

“I’m quitting,” she finally told Ashley one evening. “Quitting what?”

“I’m not sure yet. Any recommendations?” “You never take recommendations.”

“Well, I’m trying to mature.”

“Okay then. What job has been giving you the most stress lately?”

“Who said anything about quitting one of my jobs?”

Ashley raised her eyebrows with concern. “What else would you quit?” “I dunno. Life?”

“Don’t joke like that!” “Who said I was joking?”

“This is why you should see a therapist.”

“They’d only make it worse.” Cassandra took a sip of wine and hoped she wasn’t scaring her sister too much. But this was a vain hope.

“Then talk to me if you’re ever feeling suicidal.” “I’m talking to you now.”

“Are you feeling suicidal?” “Not any more than usual.”

Ashley tried to find a tone of humor. “Well that’s a relief. I think. But even so…”

“You’re everything you need to be for me, Ash. Don’t let the ole impostor syndrome get to you.”

“Thanks, Cass. But I’m still not convinced.”

“Naturally. You have impostor syndrome. But I’m trying to help you overcome that.” “And I’m trying to help you overcome your depression.”

They sat in silence for a moment, knowing the limited value of words. Neither of them really wanted to break the silence with small talk; maybe it was best to end the conversation on an ambiguous note. Well, that would have been best for Cassandra but not Ashley, so Cassandra did her best to have mercy on her anxious little sister. “You’re doing a great job, sis. I already feel a lot better than I did earlier.”

“I wish I could believe you.” They then went their separate ways for the evening, understanding that healing took a long time. If it ever even happened at all.

***

Whenever Cassandra had dinner with her whole family, she tried to avoid politics, but somehow the unquenchable fire within her always brought it out. She had long been disappointed with how easily they caved into lies fed to them by conservative media – her father once accused her of having “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” and one of her sisters claimed that Barack was more anti-immigrant than Donald – but she did her best not to think about it too much. However, sometimes she just felt compelled to challenge her loved ones and dare them to find nuance in their simplified outlooks on the country and on life in general. It didn’t help that she typically stuttered and gave poor, sloppy responses when they challenged her in return – she never thought of the best thing to say until afterwards – but she ultimately remained confident in her moral convictions and didn’t regret speaking up for what she believed in.

And that didn’t even take into account all the times she talked about her pole dancing endeavors. They didn’t even want to listen; her parents almost immediately changed the subject, and another one of her sisters shamed her for making her “uncomfortable” by discussing things no sibling should ever discuss. Ah well; to quote one of her family’s alleged favorite people, Jesus Christ, “No prophet is accepted in their own country.” Not that she claimed to be a prophet or anything; she just liked quoting the Bible out of context to drive her family crazy now and then.

Anyhow, that was all irrelevant, especially since she’d lived away from the nest for several years now. She was her own woman, and while she would always cherish her family, their validation wasn’t essential anymore, even if she sometimes wished it was. Why did we expect to be loved perfectly by imperfect people? Perhaps the innate insanity that dwelled beneath each of our delusion-dwelling hearts. Or sheer idealism; we all longed to get back to the Garden of Eden.

One night at Jumbo’s, Cassandra had a quarter life crisis midway through a dance. Was she only capitalizing on her sexuality because she believed deep-down that she was ugly and unworthy of love? Sure, that sounded like the plot of some savior-complexed Christian man’s sex fantasy, but might as well allow it to speak its piece. Okay, she knew she wasn’t ugly. But that didn’t necessarily mean she was beautiful.

Some random dude tipped her $200 as she descended from the pole. If God existed, He definitely had a sense of humor. She wasn’t ugly, she was beautiful, and she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Right? Well, quarter life crises weren’t alleviated so easily; there were plenty more doubts to accompany her uncertainty of sex appeal. Was she enabling the male gaze by working at Jumbo’s? Was her authentic dancing talent usurped by her fantasy-inspiring body? Should she be working a 9-to-5 job like every other sensible girl her age? Was she contributing to overpopulation simply by existing?

Help! I need somebody, HELP! Never before had The Beatles been so relevant to her life. But if there was no one around who could actually help her, what was the point of asking? She’d always been averse to pity; there was nothing more insulting than someone trying to be nice.

Nevertheless, she strived to give people the benefit of the doubt, especially when their intentions were pure. Maybe she really did need therapy. Maybe she really was just a stubborn little bitch who couldn’t take anybody’s valid advice. Maybe maybe maybe maybe. She despised theoreticals, while most other people seemed to get off on them; dreams could never hurt you. But she needed to be hurt; how else could she expect to grow?

On her way back from Jumbo’s, Cassandra stopped at a 24-hour diner and attempted to dissolve her existential exasperation in a milkshake. Then she remembered a time in her life when it seemed like every problem could be solved by a sweet treat and a hug from Mom and Dad. Was she really so clueless and delusional back then? Or was life actually that simple, and she was even more clueless and delusional now? Often she felt like human existence was a trick question, a no-win scenario, a decadent last meal before an unappealable execution. But she had always been a bit of a masochist, and such carefully calculated cruelty almost appeared too good to be true. Even if the universe was evil, it certainly was no genius, and it contained a multitude of loopholes; maybe milkshakes really could heal an aching heart.

Or maybe they could only cause heartburn; Cassandra regretted her decadent decision three hours later. Nothing Tums couldn’t handle, of course, although they usually made her feel sick in other ways. Why must dairy taste so good and hurt so bad? ‘Twas the nature of evil, she supposed; people continued to make deals with the Devil because they could only see the immediate pleasure, not the sustained suffering that inevitably followed.

Thankfully, she retained an exquisite sense of humor; bitching about dairy intolerance was a first-world problem to end them all. Maybe this occasion of digestive discomfort would help her put her other worries in perspective; if she could afford to cry over heartburn, she could also afford to juggle three jobs at once, or at least drop one without missing the extra money too much. Why did she make life harder for herself than it needed to be? Vegan ice cream was actually the perfect metaphor for overcoming adversity: don’t compromise, simply expand the definition of what has been helping you but also hurting you. You can still enjoy a milkshake; just suck up the fact that it’s made with alleged “milk” from almonds or oats.

She had a gymnastics competition coming up, and she was feeling a bit out of shape. Jumbo’s provided consistent exercise, but it didn’t always account for the flips and other flexible variances that a typical competition required. Her diet had also been less than ideal – the milkshake being a prime example – and she needed to eat more greens and proteins PRONTO or else risk being overcome by flabbiness and low energy. Bye bye, DiGiorno frozen pizza. Hello… frozen vegetables and salmon from the 99 Cents Store (which wasn’t actually $0.99 ever since Covid).

Maybe she should just drop out and wait ‘til she felt more fit. Or this was a sign to quit competing and focus entirely on coaching and dancing at Jumbo’s. God was typically silent, but when He talked, He TALKED. It’s not like she actually wanted to compete professionally for much longer; it had its moments of bliss but ultimately caused her more anxiety than it was worth. And the occasional prize money wasn’t particularly life-changing; it enabled her tendencies toward alcoholism more than anything else.

But then came the inevitable doubts. You can’t afford to give up a good opportunity! If anything, give up Jumbo’s, your family will be much less disappointed in you! She wasn’t yet sure whether to buy these doubts as tough truths or anxiety-caused delusions. Maybe they could be both; “truth” and “delusion” were sometimes cousins, if not exactly twin siblings. Yes, it was important to keep in touch with reality, but what good had reality ever done anybody? Walt Disney knew what he was doing; fantasy did far more for the human spirit than real life ever could.

She ultimately decided to keep all three jobs and decide later. Typical. Life was too short to lament how long it often felt like; people on their deathbed usually ended up regretting what they didn’t do, not what they did. Well, unless they were mobsters or something. Hell, maybe she had it backwards: she should actually be applying for a fourth job! Overachievers, look out; she was gonna bring a whole new definition to the word.

Anyhow, the next afternoon on her way to coaching, she was feeling pretty good, ready to change the world one pole at a time. But then she encountered a pole of an entirely different kind. It was a street lamp rather, and someone had stuck a sticker on it that simply read, “Are you happy?” A rather vague question she thought, but the maker of the sticker wasn’t around to clarify what they meant. She didn’t have to answer of course, but now she felt compelled, like a teenager playing Truth or Dare with their crush at a party.

“Okay, sticker. Am I happy? Of course!” She sounded way more confident than she actually was and immediately backtracked. “Well… Most days anyway. Or I dunno, maybe I’m more hopeful than happy. Is anybody really happy?”

The sticker didn’t bother to answer her, so Cassandra decided to answer for herself. “No, I don’t think they are. Especially the people who say that they’re happy. They’re blinded by their capitalistic delusions.” Now she was starting to sound a bit pretentious, and she needed to ground herself quickly. “Or maybe it’s not as simple as that. Anyhow, I… I’m not sure I’m a happy person, but I do have happy moments. Isn’t that good enough?”

Again, the sticker didn’t answer. It seemed to stare at her with plastic mischief, challenging her to authentically analyze herself and come to a nuanced conclusion. “Why do we need to be happy? We’re all gonna die sooner than later anyway, and then we won’t even be able to remember our alleged happiness. Must it be such a goddamned priority? Happiness and love and all the other meaningless ideals we ascribe meaning to…” Sighing, she took one last look at the sticker and concluded, “I’m not sure I really know what ‘happy’ means. But I feel okay today, and I’m too scared to ask for anything more.”

Turning to go, she suddenly became overcome by a fit of spontaneity and started climbing the street lamp, wary of how insane she looked but not really giving a damn. Getting as high up there as she could, she saw all sorts of people living their boring lives, fetishizing what they were gonna have for dinner later and what sex positions they were going to try next. Their happiness seemed like misery to her, and she realized she finally had a confident answer she could give the sticker:

“I’m happier than most.”