I've been putting my one dollar bills aside. You see, I need them for my Wednesday mornings at the strip show.
The show is held in the basement of the local Methodist church. I have to walk through the church's preschool to get there. It makes me feel a little strange to see all the little kids playing so nicely, when I know that in a few minutes, I'll be seeing grown men and women stripping down.
I pay ten dollars a week to see this show. That's before tips.
I seek out my little registration card and stand in line with all of the other voyeurs with my head held down and my eyes darting.
And then it starts. People step up to the tables. They take off their jacket. Then their shoes. Then the pants, showing off some cute little shorts. Then the tops, revealing strappy little camisoles or undershirts.
And then the organizer tells the stripper, "Okay. Step on the scale."
One little minx last week went so far as to toss off her ball cap and scrunchy. She then lamented loudly, to everyone present, that she had gained .2 pounds. "Probably because I'm so bloated from my period," she announced to the crowd.
Sure, sweetie. We understand. Maybe if you had taken it all off, you would have lost a little. I mean the underwire in your bra alone must weigh at least half a pound.
Let me tell you. Seeing these people, who are so desperate to have the Weight Watchers scale tell them that they have lost weight that they will shed all of their dignity, well, it just makes my week.
As for me. I wear my jeans, sneakers, and long-sleeved shirts with pride. Because if the scale tells me I've lost 2.8 pounds, I want it to be all me, baby.
Now that's hot.
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