Strippers are notorious for being no-shows, late, unkempt and even lazy.  Former strippers sometimes have a tendency to maintain some of those ill-gotten habits every once in a while.  While I have random moments of perfection, I confess.  I’ve been a bit sidetracked.

Life happens and what was happening in my life at that moment is no different from what is going on now: I am sincerely excited for what awaits me on the horizon.  No, I’m not moving but I am eager for new experiences, meeting new people, doing new things…doing new people.  Haha, I’m kidding.  I’m only doing one new person.  Yes, like any lesbian can tell you, getting a new girlfriend gives you amnesia when it comes to keeping up with your responsibilities.

I apologize.  I have missed you and I am eager to share what awaited me on the horizon back then.  Atlanta.  Hotlanta.  Mylanta.  I was working my buttinsky off (much like I am now, but with clothes on).  After my brush with the reality of my weight issue in Jen’s office, I was forced to face the facts: “Lose weight before the owners come in and see you and force me to fire you.”  I could lie and tell you that I told her to kiss my not-quite-fat-yet ass, but what good would that do, except to keep my blog ego intact?  Okay, I’m laughing too.  That deflated as soon as I divulged my run-in with running shorts guy.  Am I right?  I kept my head up, nodded, left and cried alone in my car.  Just like any self-respecting stripper would do.  But then I also did what any self-respecting woman is supposed to do: I got to working out.  But not for Jen and 2001 Odyssey, for myself and my future in Atlanta.

I worked out every single day.  And then I worked almost every single night.  The funny thing about working in the clubs is that when you set a goal that has absolutely nothing to do with the club, but more to do with getting out of the club, money just starts rolling in.  All of a sudden, I was lining them up and collecting the dough.  I was glowing.  The more I mentioned the move, the more money I seemed to make.

I called my friend in Atlanta – Lamar – who made plans to come to Tampa and help me pack and move.  I gave my apartment complex notice and paid them appropriate fees to break my lease.  I even signed a new lease on a place in Atlanta, sight unseen.  I know – when I make a decision, I just go for it.  But it was in Buckhead, which apparently, was where all the action happened.  There was no turning back.  D-day was in exactly six weeks.  D-day: otherwise known as ‘Damn, why am I doing this again – day’.  Of course, if I had anticipated the drama involved in getting me out of Tampa and into Atlanta, I may have ‘slowed my roll’ just a wee bit and saved myself a few headaches and another girl a potential ass-whooping.