It’s the most cliché of all New Year’s resolutions and it insists on presenting itself every year. No, it’s not saving money—I gave up on that long ago and now monitor the depletion of my bank account in terms of how much I’m saving rather than how much I’m spending. (I spent $280 on Gilt last month, but it could’ve been $600. Thank you, sample sales.)

I’m talking about the annual chorus heard round the world: "We’re going to lose weight and get in shape, damnit!"

Every year since my sophomore year of high school my friends and I have bemoaned how now, when we should be at our physical peaks, we’re letting our “best years” slip by because we’re too lazy to hit the tread. Well, obviously my “peak” is more of a gently sloping hill, because it’s been the same spiel every year since I was 16. If there were an apex, I think I’ve long since passed it.

I’ve dabbled in a number of fad exercise trends but my most recent foray might have been the most daunting. After failed attempts at Turbo Jam (it might have proved more successful if I were one of the blissed-out band featured in the infomercial, rather than fighting for floor space as my family laughed) and BOSU ball (I can only fall down so many times before my morale is irreparably damaged), my dear friend Stephanie and I decided to give pole dancing a whirl (pun very much intended).

I don’t know what I expected from the introductory class, really, but I wanted to leave with the ability to turn a few tricks—literally. The class make-up was something to be noted in itself; Steph and I were the youngest by a good 10 years and four of the women (a third of the class) were Turkish. I guess they got sick of belly dancing.

What surprised me most was the constant talk of sanctuary and emphasis on self-love. It bordered on the spiritual and given the circumstances, I found it a little weird. Strike one was the instructor’s insistence that I take my hair down (it was less sultry than inconvenient) and my reservation turned to shock when she demanded: “Now, touch your powerhouse!”

Lady, I will do no such thing.

But to my shock and maybe-delight, most of the women did! People were groping themselves, flipping their hair and shedding their professional and soccer-mom-concerns to wriggle around in a mirror-less room and become, for a night, the sort of women whose names end in “i.”

Steph and I spent the remainder of the class, which was mostly floor work and was peppered with hoots, hollers and self-congratulatory ass slaps, trying to contain our giggles while we looked for new, previously unappreciated parts of our knees.

I don’t know that I buy into the whole pole dancing studio-as-sanctuary thing (especially for $40 a class) but I must say, I was intrigued. And even though I didn’t learn as many pole tricks as I had hoped, Steph and I are sporting wicked twin bruises on our shins from a little move called “the firefly.”

So although I doubt I’ll be purchasing my own home pole this year, I resolve to keep leaping at chances to do something new, out there and unexpected. What have I got to lose?

Turbo Jam got me with a late-night infomercial