I think I haven't worked in a month. I haven't kept track of the time, and I've busied myself with other things. The last time I was at work, some prima donna started screaming at me for no logical reason. I found myself staring calmly into her rage-filled eyes and thinking, "I'm worth more than this."
Strangely, nothing repulsive that any in a long list of repulsive customers has done ever had quite that effect. Perhaps because I never considered rude, animalistic men in strip clubs to be real people. They're like dogs... or maybe rats? Or maybe they're just something slimy and sub-intelligent that oozed up out of the sewers took male form and found its drunken way into a strip club long enough to demand a blow job for five bucks.
Either way, I honestly think the treatment I've received from my peers is going to prove to be the final breaking point. I know they don't like me. I know they say horrible things about me behind my back. The point at which they begin saying horrible things to my face is where they cross the line.
I'm quitting my profession.
Not today. Not tomorrow, even. But soon. As soon as it can be afforded. Four months? Finding a new job is difficult in this economy. Finding a new job while trying to find/build a new home, select a guest list for your upcoming wedding, and figure out the dimensions needed for a pool to breed tilapia... well, I did say I've kept busy.
Besides, my "profession" isn't really my profession. It was a job. Kind of like that starter job people get fresh out of highschool/college working at the fast food place. Rarely does it prove to be a lifelong "career" but when you're a stripper everyone assumes that it somehow becomes a lifestyle and primary form of identity. "What's your name?" "Ima Stripper." "Oh."
Honestly, that's one of my pet peeves from work. Yes, horny men stare at me and think things that make me glad I can't read minds. Guess what? If I wasn't working in a club, horny men would stare at me and think thoughts that would make me glad I can't read minds. The only difference would be jeans and a baggy hoodie versus a teeny weenie bikini.
So why do so many people I meet at the club treat me like I've somehow sold my soul to the gods of stripperdom? Like I'll never be anything else again? Like some chunk of my humanity's been torn away and I will forever be a marked woman-- no longer capable of acting as normal women do. Honestly, people, you might as well tattoo a big glowing scarlet letter A on my chest and send me out into the world to live in infamy.
So now that I'm gearing up to quit, am I supposed to just disappear in a poof of smoke. Do I somehow cease to exist when I'm not a stripper anymore? Or do I somehow fade into that uncomfortable grey area of "ex-stripper"? What do strippers do when they aren't strippers anymore?
The thing is, everyone's told me many times, with varying levels of condescension, "Little girl, once you become a stripper, it's really hard to get out of the business." (I'm short, so little girl applies only in the literal sense... and it's still condescending.)
Perhaps it's arrogance on my part, but I don't think it will be so hard for me. I grew up in a small town, became a stripper, got together enough money to move to a city. Poof! I'm in a city. I met a wonderful man there who isn't like the men strippers are usually attracted to because he doesn't abuse me, he isn't alcoholic, he doesn't do or sell drugs, and he doesn't feel an overwhelming need to adorn himself with bling. He asks to marry me. I begin to sob uncontrollably and manage to squeak "yes." We start making plans, and I start thinking about that promise I made myself to quit stripping when I get married.
Sounds like a good idea. Now what can I do to make myself useful? And so begins the blog. What does a stripper do once she's no longer a stripper? There's a whole big world of ideas and experiences out there waiting for me. What do I want to do first? Or maybe I should just do all of them.
Anyway, the following blogs will hopefully outline the steps of my slow (but very welcome) transition from stripper... to housewife.
