Years of Dance and Taxes Have Warped my Brain

Believe it or not, this actually came up at work a few weeks back. I've been a bit hesitant to post it, unsure if it would shock or upset people; but seriously, it's just too amusing to me not to share.

True confessions: I have been to a Vegas male strip show. What do I have to say about that? It is probably one of the funniest memories I have.

Now here's the 'obligatory' disclaimer: Do I recommend this? Of course not. But here’s my goofy experience.

I was working in Alpharetta, GA for a few months, towards the end of my time with Deloitte. Instead of flying home one weekend or visiting family in Tennessee, I went with 3 other girls on a Girl’s Weekend to Las Vegas. My first trip to Vegas. We walked the strip, played some casinos, toured the amazing hotels, visited piano bars, rode the enormously high roller coaster at New York New York, and splurged once on the renowned all-you-can-eat buffet at the Belagio.

We also “took in a show.” We looked at ticket prices and availability of different comedians, musicians, and dances, and decided on Australia’s Thunder from Down Under - the male dancing group themselves - to go with the Girl’s Weekend theme. I debated on whether I would actually participate in that outing.

If the other girls had wanted to go to a strip club, I wouldn’t have gone. I would have found something else to do by myself. But because this was tickets to a ‘Vegas show’ in one of the hotels, I thought I’d give it a try. Perhaps it’s a hair-splitting difference to you, but it made a big difference to me. We were in something like Conference Room A, 3rd floor of a hotel and casino. It looked more like one of those Learn How To Make $80,000 A Year And Never Get Out of Your Pajamas seminars.

We got there too late to get a ‘good seat.’ The other girls were disappointed, but this was key for me. I was fully prepared to go sit in a back corner by myself anyway. When it comes to these things, I have a You-Touch-Me-I-Hurt-You policy.

The venue for people-watching was absolutely priceless. The room was packed, and there were more than a few bachelorette parties present. Women of all sorts were in attendance, from college-aged to grandmothers. The emcee was a stitch, and the guys genuinely seemed to enjoy performing. Among the 5 or 6 who did solo performances, you could tell one had previous gymnastics experience, one was a Justin Timberlake/Michael Jackson copycat, and one looked like Fabio but sounded like Mickey Mouse. I was amazed at how crazy these women got over this show. All I could do was laugh.

Because here’s the kicker of the whole thing: I’m watching all these women scream and cheer and cat-call and shout, “He’s so hot!” and I’m sitting there thinking, “He needs to point his toes.”

I’m not kidding. After more than half my lifetime in gymnastics and dance, I’m counting out the music, noting travel moves and use of stage space, recognizing style similarities and taking off tenth deductions for things like sloppy arms. Am I a nerd? Yeah, I’m pretty sure. But the same thing happens in my head when people say they really want to win the lottery. Being the tax accountant all I can think is, “yeah, but there’s a lot of tax you have to pay on those prize winnings and most people claim bankruptcy within a year and a half because they don’t know how to handle the money.”

Kinda takes the excitement out of it. Even though I thought the entire situation was hysterical, I guess every party needs a pooper. That’s why they invited me.

On a side note, if anyone hasn’t been to Las Vegas, I’d definitely recommend it. It really has a fascinating beauty of its own, but there’s also no mistaking the under-current of deep sadness and misplaced hopes. It’s an experience.