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Milf and Honey?

Abria Shanee
Nov 2
3 min read

Every time my mind wanders to the stack of utility bills that look like mortgage, or the kids ask me for yet another thing, including dinner... I find myself asking the hard questions. Questions like: Why did I let guidance counselors ruin my life?


Back in 1999, high school teachers hammered a singular, soul-crushing narrative into my brain: go to college, get a degree, secure a steady 9-5, and climb the corporate ladder. I followed the rules. I bought ALL the sensible blazers, I learned how to read a contract, and spent four years writing papers on political theory just so I could spend my thirties answering emails that begin with, "Per my last message."


What tf is the grand reward for this pristine adherence to societal norms? A lingering lower-belly pouch, some kind of nerve compression in my elbow, and a credit card balance that makes me want to start spanking men for money.


Meanwhile, I could have bypassed the entire academic industrial complex. If I had dropped out at nineteen and taken the noble, direct route—starting out as a local club favorite, steadily advancing to Hype-Williams-directed hip-hop video vixen rocking head-to-toe metallic body paint, and culminating my career by marrying a third-string NFL backup with a multi-million-dollar guaranteed contract and three bad knees—I wouldn't be crying over rent right now. I’d be lounging on a custom sectional in Calabasas, arguing with a contractor about the dimensions of my indoor koi pond.


Instead, I have a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science, a 3/4 completed law degree, and a retirement fund that as far as I'm concerned consists of a half-empty jar of quarters and a dream, since I can't touch it until I retire.


I trace the trajectory not taken with scientific precision. Step one: auditioning for the

local establishment with a stage name like Jurisdiction. Step two: charming a major-label director into letting me wear oversized sunglasses and blow bubbles in a music video set on a yacht in Miami. Step three: locking down a professional athlete who needs a dependable woman to manage his real estate portfolio and look stunning courtside while he benches. It all sounds infinitely more glamorous than managing a trip of passive-aggressive pre-teens and teens whose names start with the letrer J. Though, I'm not trading them for the world.


Let's be completely honest with ourselves, though. My current anatomy includes forty pounds of pandemic grief, twenty pounds of corporate trauma, and a stubborn mid-section that refuses to cooperate with high-waisted denim, let alone a G-string. My knees click when I stand up too fast, and I am violently allergic to mofos from Avondale.


If I tried to drop it low on a brass pole right now, my lower back would snap like a dry twig and I'd have to file an incident report with worker's comp—which, ironically, brings me right back to my 9-5 desk job.


So, is it too late to start stripping? Probably. Club security would likely mistake my labored breathing for an asthma attack, and I’d spend my entire shift lecturing the VIP section on PEMDAS operations.

.

With a heavy, resigned sigh, I close the tab tracking local adult entertainment auditions, open Outlook to my three hundred unread messages, and mutter a quiet prayer to the corporate gods. The bills aren't going to pay themselves, and my folding kitchen chair isn't a VIP lounge. Back to the spreadsheets.






 
 
 

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