Am I A Square?

Tonight I was excited beyond belief to actually have plans. Not that the quality nights I spent at home this week, kept company by Blockbuster, were not fabulous. Invitation was extended, I accepted, and off I went.

I arrived at the dance club, sans boots this time due to the big blisters they graced me with last time. I was there for about two and a half hours, and honestly had a blast. We danced to ridiculous line dances, giggled like teenagers, and I finally got to do some regular dancing, for the first since I have been here. Soon the hour grew late, and with my lunch date looming just hours away, I decided to call a night.

It was only after I got in the car and the whiff of stale cigarette smoke wafted up from my jacket and hair, that a slow and subtle feeling began to creep over me. I am having trouble finding the words to exactly pin down the feeling. I just felt bad. While my Austin counterparts were similarly dancing the night away, none of them left smelling like smoke or the feeling of a rock in their gut. It was not just the smoke that induced my non-eloquently stated feeling of bad.

The night was a typical night at the bar; full of drunk men trying to grope you, waitress wearing leather bikinis, and women dressed in their whore uniforms. Tonight we had the luxury of a stripping contest. Girls show up in costume, and strip down to their thongs and pasties. Right there in the club. Suddenly I began to wonder why the stripping had not outraged me while I was actually in the club. Why had the stripping not outraged me to the point where I was ready to leave? Was my overwhelming need to be accepted, overshadowing my need to stand up for what is morally correct? Then again, was it any worst than what I watch on TV? All these questions are the reason that I am having a hard time assigning words to the feeling.

Feeling still unresolved, I am off to bed and wondering how the Asian in the neon pink bikini and six inch clear heels feels that I am judging her right now. Then again, she might have given up the right to feel horrified at my judgment the moment she applied pink stars to each one of her nipples. The sad thing is that I am sure I am not the only one, back home, who is still thinking about her.