It has been nearly six months since I last donned a pair of fluorescent orange hot pants and giggled over tired puns and clumsy double
entendres from men twice my age, while simultaneously juggling greasy plates of wings and trying to make scrunch socks and nylons with sneakers appear sexy, all in an effort to generate income. The decision to depart from my position as one of the world famous Hooters Girls was not a difficult one to make, nor is it one that has left me with any regrets. A number of factors were involved in making the choice that I did, not the least of which was the dismal realization that my job was causing me to view roughly fifty percent of the world's population with disdain and a scornful wariness. You see, though the majority of the customers that I served during my time as a Hooters Girl, first as a waitress, then as a bartender, were basically good people, there was a small but
impactful and seemingly always present group of regulars whose treatment of me, my coworkers, and women at large left a great deal to be desired, so much so that they, being the people whom I saw the most of at the time, were coloring my perspective of all men for the worse. I was avoiding going out in public alone, preferring the comfort of having my boyfriend present to deter the attentions of other men. I was no longer taking pride in my appearance, forgoing makeup and eschewing even the most mildly suggestive clothing in favor of loose sweatshirts and baggy jeans. I walked with my head down, avoiding eye contact and refraining from smiling. My formerly almost gregarious personality morphed in to one that was brusquely reticent. I simply wanted to go completely unnoticed by others, as at that point I associated any attention as being negative attention. Each of these alterations and the corresponding reasons behind them were made as a direct result of the treatment that I received while at work, and though the changes were not made consciously, they did not go unobserved, either. Of course, it was not long until I grew weary of scurrying through life in fear of being acknowledged, of the feelings of loathing derision each time my defenses failed and I heard the murmured words of appreciation as I hurried past yet another leering man. My new manner of living was only fostering the contempt that was growing inside of me, both for the male gender and for myself.
The Boyfriend and I purchased our first house in late November of last year. Overwhelmed by the amount of work that was necessary before we could even think about moving in, I took a few weeks off of work. Then, just as I was beginning to consider getting back to work, the floods came. For more than five months straight my uterus coughed out blood, tissue, and clots the size of my
pinky fingernail on a daily basis. The bleeding was, of course, accompanied by drastic hormonal fluctuations and debilitating cramps. I was a shrieking, weeping, celibate mess. There was absolutely no way that I was going to squeeze my ass in to a Hooters uniform and prance around pretending as though there was nowhere that I'd rather be than running back and forth between the bar and the bathroom to change yet another soaked pad or to down third handful of Advil. By the time the floods eventually subsided, I realized that they, at the risk of sounding utterly cliched, had been a blessing of sorts. I also realized that I was better off not going back.
