Ride on the Peace Train

I’m trying not to think about work too much at the moment, which is why I haven’t been writing much.

I moved back to my old club a few months ago cause my old injury just wasn’t coping very well with the 12 hour shifts and numerous trips up and down stairs in stupid heels to check podium rosters, not to mention actually doing the podiums through the night. My spirit wasn’t coping very well with bitchy, venomous girls talking trash about each other. And I really was just missing my ladies at my old club house. It took an anxiety attack and some serious pain in my old injury to actually push me back into the arms of my first club love.

But, unfortunately, as is often the case, I was in love with what once was. Not what now is. And when I say that, I just mean that the money isn’t as good there anymore. Thankfully the bikies and bottom feeder gangsta wannabes have moved on, but so too has the phenomenal money.

It seems inevitable that I will soon be back up the road. I have made my mind up that if I am to survive there, I will have to seriously adjust my behaviour. I can no longer afford to humour people by listening to them relay their drama with other girls. I need to keep my head in the clouds, high up above the whining tornado of cut throat narcissism. I need to keep my head phones in to block out the penetrating, high pitched sound of bitch.

Obviously I take no credit for the clip shown above.

I only ever had one beef up there, and it wasn’t even my beef. So inconsequential it’s not worth mentioning in detail. Suffice to say, the girl’s quarrel with me was laughable and her only accomplishment was to make herself look even more stupid, which was no mean feat.

I’m not the type to fight with my co-workers. In almost 7 years, I’ve had one proper fight. I am now friends with that lady. Fighting wasn’t really a significant part of the club culture where I was sprouted as a fresh little bean. Although there has always been a hierarchy, we had, and still do have, a sisterhood that many girls from any walk of life might envy. We watch each other’s backs and stand up for each other. I once had a couple of girls catch me crying backstage after an encounter with a particularly nasty Irishman. They asked me to point out who he was and then made their way over to casually spill a glass of red wine on his crisp, mean shirt. At my club house we don’t have any fear of other girls “stealing” our regulars, or cutting our grass, because it never really happens. And the girls who try to work that way are told to their face that their behaviour will not  be tolerated. They don’t last very long. It’s the girls who keep each other in line. Not management. And to be fair, it shouldn’t be the responsibility of management to tell their staff how to be good people.

Up the road things are different. I’ve never in my life seen and heard women treat each other so poorly. It was really awful to be around. Drama, drama, drama ALL the time. This girl is fighting with that girl, she meets up with customers after work to fuck them for money, she has diseases, she doesn’t have diseases that she says she has, they used to be friends but then that girl stole her regular, she was sleeping with the manager, she’s lying about this or that, she thinks she’s a fucking model, that girl has ‘stolen’ the moves from that other showgirl’s routine, blah blah blah who gives a shit blah blah blah.

But at the same time, there are a few girls that I really do miss. A couple of cheeky monkeys from behind the bar. Some locker room banter. And the money. It was ridiculous. The management are less inclined to treat you like a human being which has its pros and cons. Pros are that I worked really hard, I learnt not to be flaky cause I’m half Asian, therefore pretty stingy, and it would kill me to hand over a $120 penalty for cancelling my shift. Cons are, that when you really aren’t coping, and really and truly have a valid reason for cancelling a shift, they don’t care. And you know that you are just a number. Just another set of boobs and a vagina strapped into a pair of platform stilettos. That doesn’t feel very nice. It’s why I hated working in offices for big corporations. But at the end of the day, we might have off days, sad days, hormonal crazy lady days, our kids might be sick, our granny might die, but they are a business and their cogs keep turning. It’s not the way I hope to run my business, but it’s their way of doing business and I need to accept that and learn not to take it to heart.

If and when I do try again there, assuming I’m allowed back, I hope I don’t hear a bad word breathed about anyone, and I hope I can stay out of it all and don’t diminish myself myself as a person by partaking in any form of useless negative behaviour. I know I let myself get tangled up in nonsense. I want to be OUT of the loop. I want sunshine, lollipops and I want everyone to ride on the fucking peace train.

Not me. Not my photo. I was not alive in the 70s…

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