ExposedNYC

I’m pretty sure I’ve sold my soul.

Working at a nightclub is one of the last things I ever imagined doing at this stage in my life. I partied like a rock star in my day, but lately I’ve hung my dancing shoes on such a high enough shelf that I have to really want to reach for them.

That part actually makes me kind of perfect for the job. I’ve had a bad habit in the past of working in jobs where I really wanted to be a customer. I worked on special events that I would have rather attended, I waited tables in a place where I wanted to eat all of the food, and I served beers in a sports bar where I was constantly distracted by watching the game.

So it’s strange for me to see people wait in the cold and spend more than my weekly paycheck on a night on the town that I can’t imagine choosing for myself.

But what’s hardest is listening to the amount of judgment that goes into this environment. Girls are sized up by body type, what they’re wearing, and whose arm they happen to be hanging on. I’m not even sure if I would stand up to the standard that I see enforced.

It blows my mind that gender discrimination is not only common, but a completely expected practice throughout the industry. Bouncers can look a guy in the face and say, “I’m sorry, we can’t let any more guys in right now,” and although they may not like it, the guy gets it. Girls are about a million times less likely to pay a cover, and it rarely requires more than a smile or innocent flirting [I know other tactics exist, but unlike this guy I’m new to this world so I’m speaking purely from an observational standpoint].

The feminist in me hates it, the capitalist in me understands it, and the struggling artist in me is willing to bite my tongue and accept it for a paycheck at the end of the week. And, if I’m being honest, there’s the momentary power trip of thinking that I’m above it all- even if I’m not completely sure I’m convinced.

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