My least favorite social situation: I switched my gaze to the top of his nose to put a boundary between us. I quickly walked over to her and asked: She knew I was a stripper but had never been to the club. My weirdness was worth their paycheck. Sarah got up to go to the bathroom. I let out a sigh of relief as the taxi plowed across the Williamsburg Bridge. I silently counted to 10 and reminded myself to look away for a second — best not to terrify him.
Are they asking for my real name? I forgave myself when I slipped outside of social norms and said something weird. One time, I went to a dinner party my sister hosted. A second later the words clicked. The manager looked at my petite frame and nervous smile, pointed her manicured hand to the dressing room and listed the rules: She stared at me with a bored expression, so I got right to it. Hundreds of customers came and went during the hour shift, sitting on plush couches and crowding around the bar. I ordered my first drink of the night and took inventory of the club. I can see their faces now, wide-eyed and uncomfortable, but at the time they coalesced into one indistinguishable figure, Dave Matthews playing in the background taking precedent. She saw right through my mask. He was also more animated than the others. My least favorite social situation: His words mixed in with the background conversation and it sounded like another language. The birthday was successfully buried, and I was buzzing from the bliss of escape. I prayed no one would ask me personal questions. It was getting late, two hours before closing, and I was exhausted and frustrated. You want to post pictures of hungover owls , or judge people for taking selfies at funerals , or get all existential looking at Garfield comics without Garfield present? We grumbled about how slow business was until I spotted a paunchy man at the bar. Top Yahoo executives clashed with Tumblr, or just flat out confused employees. So, I meticulously designed a persona who nodded at the right time, rehearsed lines, smiled when appropriate, monitored personal space, spoke quietly. One dancer particularly stood out with her naturally frizzy curls and tattered black bra. I considered a bar job, but decided to try stripping simply because it meant fewer hours. Scrolling through were women like me: I spotted a man at the bar — alone, tall, bald with a kind smile and a glass of whiskey in his hand. The effects of camouflaging are toxic, they warned. The force of my rotting loneliness hit like a tidal wave as the reality of how much I struggled to navigate social settings outside settled in. I quickly walked over to her and asked:
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