Classy.

I like to think of myself as — if nothing else — well put together. I might be an emotional mess, or so out of shape that I get winded getting out of bed, but at least my outward appearance is classy. Usually

On Monday I threw on some jeans, heels and a button-down shirt to go into the city to run some errands. My first stop was at an office off Times Square — an office that happened to be right next door to the Gentleman’s Club, Flash Dancers. Normally “Gentleman’s Club” might connote fancy burlesque ladies, but this is midtown so it’s a misnomer. This is a Strip Joint. So as I walk past this strip joint the door man opens the door for me, and holds it. I was THE ONLY ONE on the block, and he didn’t just rest his hand on the doorhandle, or casually open it and quickly shut it again — he confidently opened the door and held it for me, with an expression on his face that said “hello, stripper! Enjoy your day of stripping!” As I continued past him, wondering if maybe I had misread his intentions ( “Hello lesbian!” or “Hello kicky bi-curious fictional woman of all men’s fantasies!”) he looked a little startled — yes, he was that sure — and closed the door.

I don’t mind the idea that I could be a stripper. To me that says that I am hot, and possibly working my way through college. But even most strippers can usually pass for normal people. I am bothered by this guy’s CERTAINTY that I was UNDOUBTABLY about to rub baby oil on my tits and grind my way through “Cherry Pie” (in the middle of the day, no less.) Apparently I am not as cute as I am REMARKABLY trashy. But I wasn’t even wearing anything outrageous — do I just posess a certain “stripperly” quality? I wonder if people always assume I’m a stripper when they see me, but never had the opportunity to so blatantly indicate it. Perhaps that accounts for people’s surprise when I say I’m in comedy. It’s not that they’re thinking “Really? But you’re not very funny!”, they’re just thinking “Oh! So, NOT a stripper!”