When I was younger—like before my brain fully developed to a point where I could distinguish right from wrong and what places it’s acceptable to fart/pick your nose or front wedgie, I used to think that I was going to be a stripper. Let’s say this was around third grade. (So, yeah, I guess I was still picking my cotton tacos in third grade, and also that I knew what strippers were.) I was taking dance classes and I just fucking loved hip rolls—I thought they were the greatest gift God gave our bodies. Obviously PedEggs didn’t exist yet, and clearly I hadn’t been fed enough pizza. Also, I already had boobs and all my shoes had baby click-clack heels, so stripping for a living somehow made sense to me. Some things I should mention: I saw “Showgirls” way before it was age-appropriate. Also, I didn’t know about drugs yet or what a strip club actually was (a cesspool of splooge? Yeah, no idea), and I apparently had missed “S” day on Sesame Street for “Self-Respect”, so I really had no concept about anything in life. I just wanted to shake my newly sprouted tits and wear my mom’s high heels, because let’s be serious, my Stride Rites were giving zero people boners.
Flash forward almost two decades. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I have to work for a living for at least the next forty years. So even though I recognize—because it would be socially unacceptable not to—that stripping isn’t the respectable livelihood of bikini dancing that I once glorified it as, there are a lot of days when being a stripper truly seems like the most logical option for me, all kidding aside.
Mostly because you make ALL THE DOLLARS.
AND you don’t have to wear clothes.
Now, before you pipe up and say “Yes, that’s the problem. The nudity is completely demoralizing and degrading”, let me provide you with this counter-argument: Who really likes wearing clothes anyway? Clothes are the worst, and I actually have a lot of trouble wearing clothes correctly as it is.
In fact, I’m pretty shocked I haven’t been fired yet and basically forced to take up stripping by mere necessity. I’ve had a few workplace accidents that I’m pretty sure have a number of rumors circulating about me being an alien attempting to emulate female behavior, because apparently I haven’t mastered the basic adult art of dressing yourself.
Some of the better wardrobe malfunctions involved the ever-attractive hole in the butt crack of the pants/pencil skirt. Nothing screams “business professional” like a little butt cleavage. Welcome to the cavernous black hole that is my ass crack, please make yourself extremely uncomfortable.
Another favorite was the time I was sitting in my coworker’s office when my dress did that reverse zip thing that is pretty much the 9/11 of zippers. All the way down to my butt. I made him close his eyes as I Mission Impossibled back to my office…
…and then wore a men’s sweatshirt all day, because you know that shit ain’t getting fixed, and also nothing is more subtle than wearing a men’s sweatshirt over a sundress.
But perhaps the greatest one was when I flashed my boss (no, you did not misread that).
My boss has already seen far too deep into my soul, so I guess this was the next logical leap. So, for some reason, I have an office. I tend to get pretty comfortable in there and forget where I am, and the next thing you know, someone walks in as I’m crying to a video of a baby dancing to Beyonce.
So my boss comes in one day and makes an immediate b-line for the opposite corner of the room. He literally could not have stood farther away from me, and to be honest, he was acting a little autistic.
I asked him what his deal was in the most subordinate way I could, and he just started mumbling incoherently about that side of the room. So I looked around expecting to see the bunny from Donny Darko, but what I saw was worse. Much, much worse. Instead it was my big naked ass cheek.
I was sitting on my foot, which had kicked my dress up behind me, exposing my glorious whiteness to the world.
I immediately began to scream. I mean scream like you walked in on your roommate watching goat porn. And then he started screaming. And I just thought to myself, Please, don’t ever let the screaming end, because the silence of a room with a boss and butt check is beyond anything I could possibly handle.
We never spoke of it again. And I have sat like a lady for most of the time ever since.
But bringing this completely sad conversation full circle, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it? It’s simple math. I love high heels. Apparently I prefer to not wear clothing. Is this some sort of latent stripper tendency that has yet to fully manifest? Something that’s been brewing since the third grade, since the first time I watched Showgirls?
Maybe. Maybe I missed my calling.
Or maybe I just have hotdogs for fingers that make it impossible to dress myself.
If one boozy night, you find yourself in one of the many stripclubs around Manhattan, and you see an extremely awkward, notably sober stripper (me), cover her (me) with your jacket, give her (me) some Sour Patch Kids, and send her (me) on home.