She tosses the dress onto the pile on the floor she’s already made and disappears back into the closet with Belle while I stare at the dress. It was from a business dinner with Brian where all he did was talk about himself while I sat next to him not saying a word the entire evening, feeling completely invisible in my ecru dress that matched the paint on the walls of the establishment. But I did have dessert. A very fattening tiramisu that was delicious.
“Honestly, how did you even function in normal society before you met me?” Ariel questions, her voice muffled from inside the closet, the scrape of hangers sounding like nails on a chalkboard, before she reemerges a few minutes later, dumping an armful of clothing onto the pile.
“Since your asshole ex-husband took all his shit with him and we have nothing fun to burn, we’ll start with this pile of shitty clothes,” she tells me, kicking the stack with her toe.
“We’re not burning my clothes. Do you have any idea how expensive those pieces were?” I argue, even though the sight of all my monotone, plain clothing makes me want to reach for the closest lighter.
“Cindy, you had a breakthrough the other night. You are on the track toward recovery and the first step is admitting you have a problem. Repeat after me: I will no longer put things on my body that are golden wheat, ecru, light baby-shit tan, or anything else in the beige family unless what I’m putting on my body is an actual man with that color skin tone,” Ariel recites, putting her hands on her hips and raising one eyebrow as she waits for me to comply with her request. “And we don’t have to burn everything. Just a few pieces to make you feel better. And by you I mean me, because if I have to look at this crap any longer, I’m going to throw up in my mouth. We can sell the rest.”
“It wasn’t a breakthrough; it was a temporary loss of insanity. I dumped powdered sugar on my kitchen floor and swore at a man, Ariel. It was very undignified,” I remind her, crossing my arms in front of me and trying very hard not to think about what a mess I was the other night.
PJ saw me at my absolute lowest—sweaty, sticky, and not in the right frame of mind. I’m sure he only invited us to his club tonight because he felt sorry for me.
“You said the word ass, repeating back the insult he threw at you. It doesn’t count as swearing at a man until you’ve strung together at least fifteen curses that make him scurry away with his tail between his legs, looking up half the things you called him on Urban Dictionary as he goes because he didn’t understand the words flying out of your mouth in rapid succession,” Ariel explains. “And who cares if he only invited us to the club tonight because he saw the crazy in your eyes and feared for his life? He apologized for being a dick, he’s seen the error of his ways, and now he wants to help us. We need help, Cindy. We need money. There’s only so much we can do on our own without the right connections and knowledge. PJ has those connections and knowledge. Maybe deep down he still doesn’t believe we can do this, but that just means you get to have a whole shit ton of fun proving him wrong. Don’t tell me the last couple of days haven’t been just a tiny bit exciting, knowing we’re well on our way to proving him wrong.”
I have to admit, after PJ left my house the other night, I was filled with renewed excitement about our business venture. I took charge, and Ariel, Belle, and I have been working nonstop coming up with a business plan for how exactly this home-stripping-party thing will work, since we can’t exactly put up fliers or send an email to all of our friends announcing it. So we’ve doing research and compiling as much information as we could over the last few days. While I will admit that PJ lit a fire under me, he’s not the main reason I want to do this. He’s not the driving force behind me wanting to get my life together, finally do something for myself, and figure out who I really am along the way. Proving him wrong is a just a small perk to this life-changing moment.
“You’re so close to having that stick finally removed from your ass,” Ariel continues as she walks over to stand in front of me. “You’re broadening your horizons, making new friends, hanging out at strip clubs, and learning how to dance on a pole. This is your moment, Cindy. That pole is turtle-heading its way out of your ass, and you need to yank it the rest of the way out. Burn the beige clothing.”