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Changing Spaces, Part Three

I’m learning that the sales tactics I used while stripping don’t translate to waiting tables.

A customer purchased a bottle of champagne under the condition that I enjoy one glass with him — standard strip club etiquette. Still acclimating to what’s “normal,” I was startled by the tongue-lashing I got from my boss when he saw me, bubbly in hand, despite the sale I’d made for the restaurant.

Everyone has fantasies that help them get through a rough shift or numb the sting of a malevolent boss. For some, it’s imagining a future life of glamour and fame, for others, it’s striking it rich and buying out their former workplace to turn into a parking structure where they keep all their brand new cars.

My cure for a bad day at work is surfing the web for airline and hotel deals.

I like to remind myself that I haven’t been away from the stage for too long to toss my apron aside (or into an inferno), board a plane to Las Vegas and return a week later with my wallet $3,000 heavier.

But I’m tapping into my own daydream too often.

This month, for the first time since I’ve lived on my own, I didn’t make rent. It’s not that I don’t make enough money waitressing: I do, and have for three months. I’m just so comfortable with the idea of quitting and running off to Vegas that I’m not taking my new, tighter budget seriously.

I’ve been justifying small expenditures by constantly telling myself that I can make up the difference on stage. I have nickel-and-dimed myself to such a low balance that I wouldn’t even be able to afford a plane ticket to get my ass out of this.

It’s time to suck it up, and stop spending like a stripper.

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The Guardsman