Tonight, we went to the Brass Ass. If you’re from the area, you know what a wretched place it is, if not, you can use your imagination. We went as a “ha ha lets go to the Brass Ass and get cray!” sort of gesture that made sense when vodka cranberries were swirling around in our bellies, making our blood hot.
My experience with strippers so far in life has been pretty high-brow. Vegas, Bourbon Street and a few private parties. These ladies were of a different sort. It was a scene straight out of a Palahniuk novel. We all joked that we could do better, and how we didn’t feel so bad about our bodies. We laughed loudly, clapping our hands and avoiding the cat calls aimed in our direction. And then we left, I drove home and now sitting here, the tragedy of it all is sinking in. Because this was an hour to laugh about in my Saturday night, but for those women, this is their jobs, their lives. This is what they do every day.
So I’m not sure exactly what I’m thankful for tonight. Can I say I’m thankful I’m not a stripper without sounding completely pretentious? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
I guess I’m just thankful that I see enough potential in myself to never lose sight of who I am. No matter how bad I may screw something up, I know I’ll always bounce back. Maybe those women were bouncing back too, or maybe they are more capable of removing the stigmas society tells us to have towards strippers. Maybe they love their lives.
But, I don’t think they do.