[Hey weirdos! I didn't want to leave you in the lurch for an entire weekend, so I enlisted the writing talents of a good friend to do a guest post. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did! Maggotfest is off to a rollicking good start, can't wait to recap the highs and lows of this latest adventure. All my love. -b]
Hello out there! b asked me to write a guest post since she would be unable to do so while driving across the many miles to Maggotfest. I, having the day off from work and the sunshine to keep me content, agreed happily, knowing that SURELY I could whip out a post by my midnight deadline.
Then I bought 2 bottles of champagne and mixings for multiple types of Mimosas. Next, my roommate purchased some Summer Honey and Dragon’s Breath (Missoula beers win. Sorry, Portland.) and the inevitable case of PBR. Somehow my day mysteriously disappeared... I found myself asleep at 10 pm in the room fondly known as “The Hobbit Hole” or, more commonly, “The Fuzzy Vagina” (Let me explain: TFV is a storage closet sort of thing with a king sized futon mattress folded to fit and faux fur hanging on the walls. Totally normal, guys. This is Portland we’re talking about.). Three other people had decided they wanted a “nap” as well and we all fit ourselves in to the tiny space by becoming a set of spoons. Shortly, we found ourselves lost in the oblivion of closed eyes and quiet snores. The alarm we set did little to rouse us, instead inciting riotous choruses of “Turn that damn thing off!” and “Make it stop!”. And then, there I was, waking up with one of the people climbing back in to bed for the night. Our house’s Craft Night had obviously dissipated and I dared to look at the clock. 2:00 am, you say? Better late than never, I suppose... So, here I am. After successfully postponing my writing even longer by focusing on the important things in life first... namely Facebook and downloading a bunch of music specifically chosen to be a writing soundtrack... 6:00 am has arrived and I am finally settling in to my papasan to tell you stories. But, I digress.
For this post, b asked me to recall a scene from 500 Days of Summer in which Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character, Tom is experiencing the same scenario in split screen. On one half of the screen is his “Expectation”. The other is “Reality”. Let me take this moment to note that I had to search for this scene all over the interwebs (Well, maybe that was hyperbole. I simply enlisted the help of our benevolent Google overlords.) just to remember what the heck b was referencing. I saw 500 Days of Summer once when it came out and, due to watching it on one of my many insomnia driven nights of joy and wonder, was exhausted and didn’t enjoy it very much. After rewatching the scene in question I may have to reconsider.
The idea is extraordinarily poignant to me right now. My life seems to be a series of mismatched expectations and realities. Not only does this ring true in the general sense, as most of us can relate to, but over the last year it rings true as a church bell at dawn.
For example: A year ago I was moderately content in my apartment, going to school in Missoula, living with my partner. I’d thrown around the idea of moving to Portland, talking very seriously at times about how I longed to stretch my wings in a new place and see if I could fly. However, I was settled in to finish school with a degree in the works and a decent job where I was doing “good” work every day. As I looked forward to 2012, I didn’t worry about Mayan prophesies or the supposedly impending “rapture” on May 21, 2011.
Instead, I foresaw a new apartment with the two people I loved the most. I looked forward to someday breaking out of that town and was ready to wait until it could actually happen. And when I did break out, I was going to be SOMEONE. I was going to be a name that everyone in town knew, whetherit was in writing, acting, or music circles. I was going to be a force to be reckoned with.
Reality: Here I am in Portland. I’ve now been here 8 months and am settled in to a big crazy house in a room of my own. I packed my things in a dizzy sandstorm of dashed expectations, skidding to a halt when I hadn’t even realized there might be insurmountable obstacles to my idealized future. I high-tailed it and ran, so to speak, after seeing things fall away much like the scenes in Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind wherein the walls of each memory are slowly stripped away and torn apart.
And here, I’m just another young transplant, rushing through a food stamp application before running off to do a poetry reading in a little hidden cafe. I can sing with one of the million other musicians here, but certainly don’t have people pounding on the door with special gigs. I haven’t even attended theater auditions here.
Finally, instead of working some fast food or telemarketing job like any other starving artist, I made the decision to start working as an “entertainer” at a club. Definitely the last thing I expected.
Let’s step aside now and look at the blatant “expectation”/”reality” scenario inherent in the simple fact that I dance for a living.
Expectation: The average idea of “stripping”. Backstabbing women, lots of drugs, pounds of makeup applied with a putty knife, 9 inch heels. And money. Lots and lots of money. Enough to take care of not only current bills, but also to fix my poor, poor car who needs some plastic surgery after getting in to a fight with the back end of a Yukon. I expected droves of people coming in to the club on busy nights leaving me no time to sit between conversations and smiles and dancing. I expected to hate my job.
Reality: I’ve met a few backstabbing women who fall under the “stripper” stereotype. They are drugged up and hustling 24/7. They wear the enormous heels and pounds of makeup. But I’ve also met some LOVELY women. Women who really are, just like myself, trying to accomplish goals with the supposedly large amounts of cash that they’ll make dancing. Unfortunately, that is also another unfulfilled expectation.
PEOPLE ARE BROKE. No money for the average person means that the dancers aren’t seeing the dollars either. It doesn’t matter how great your body is or how many amazing tricks you can do. If people are too broke to come in to the club, there is no one to dance for. Alas, while I may be struggling to make ends meet as usual, there is more to keep me working at the club than the coworkers. I genuinely enjoy my job. Think about it. I go to work, get all dolled up, and hang out. I dance in new ways, working out harder than I ever have in my life. (My muscles are bulging even as I type this.) I am given compliments throughout every shift. Genuine compliments. I talk to people. Friends can visit and anyone can buy me a drink on the job. I am confident. And I’m steadily breaking through the stigmatized idea of a “stripper”.
Breaking through that stigma built in to me so many years ago by the sexually repressive desert of small town Montana has been a revolutionary experience for me. Just because this isn’t what I expected doesn’t mean that my reality isn’t wonderful and challenging and eye opening every day. I don’t feel dirty. I don’t feel slutty. The endorphins continually pumping through me from so much dancing keep me pretty damn happy. R, the girl who people meet at my work, is just a character extension of me. I suppose I really did start in on an acting job after all.
Phew. And now I’m yawning and exhausted and pretty sure that none of what I wrote in this delirious haze made sense. But that’s okay. Expectation: Perfection. Reality: Doing the best we can.
Thanks, b, for letting me write and reintroducing me to 500 Days of Summer. Maybe I’ll have you post my blog address sometime so these kids can check it out.
[Note: I would love to get my hands on that address, and will be doing so ASAP. Keep an eye out for it under Things I Love on the control panel]
Until then, folks, I’m sending love across the wires.
-C
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