“You’ve got to write every day, even if you don’t have anything to say.”

That’s the blogging advice my dear friend Cassiepants gave me last night on the phone. Then she invited me to join her at her pole dancing class next weekend when I will be in LA.

Pole dancing. Wow.

Man, have we come a long way. Two Southern girls who still say “yes ma’am” to anyone over 40 (even though they’re our peers these days), would never, ever wear white after Labor Day (or velvet after Valentine’s Day), and who always carried thank you notes with us, just in case a sudden etiquette emergency struck while we were out.

We were so sheltered that, well, I was so sheltered that my first marriage was to a gay man. Who was a ballroom dance instructor. And an opera singer. And I was actually surprised—really, truly—when I discovered almost a decade into the marriage that he was regularly hooking up with men he found on the Internet.

(But I digress—maybe I do have things to write about, after all!)

Back to pole dancing. I tried to tell her that I was pretty sure I wasn’t pole dancing material. And that I didn’t want to have to explain an odd, pole dancing-related injury to an ER doctor. Or my children.

She laughed at me. And told me the offer still stands.

The idea does amuse me, but I really don’t think I can pull it off. See, there are women who give off the bombshell, vixenish sexual thing. And then there are women who remind you of Mary Poppins. (Spoonful of sugar, anyone?)

And now that you have the suitably disturbing image of Mary Poppins on a stripper pole etched forever in your brains, I think I’ve written enough for the day.