At the time, we were broke. And by we, I mean me. Because in his world, my lack of income was the only thing keeping us down, never mind that I wasn't allowed to fix it.
Of course, every time I tried to apply for a job, there was suddenly a reason why I couldn't. Too far. Too little pay. Too much time away from the kids. Too risky. Too beneath him.
Also, he doesn't babysit. Because babysitting your own children isn't his "job."
Anyway, we were getting the local newspaper delivered back then, and I spotted a job listing in the classifieds that made me pause.
Escort service seeking new hires. Must be attractive, personable, open-minded. Discretion required.
I laughed. Folded the paper. Held it up to him and said, "Honestly, I'd probably be great at this. I'm pretty, social, and people like me."
Without missing a beat, he said: "You're too fat. Too tall. Too ugly. Nobody would want to hire you."
Then, with a smirk and the audacity of a man who still believed himself funny, he added, "Yeah, sure. Go ahead and apply."
So I did.
I sent an email with my phone number. Attached some headshots and body shots. Wrote a little blurb about my sparkling personality and my people skills. I didn't expect much.
A few days later, we got a voicemail on the home phone. You know, the landline. With the shared answering machine.
I checked it first. Listened to it. Sat there grinning.
Then I marked it as unlistened.
When he got home from work, he did what he always did, grabbed a snack, checked the mail, and hit play on the voicemail like it was just another Tuesday.
And then came the message:
"Hi, this message is for Lola. We received your headshots and body shots and we're very interested in setting up an in-person interview. We loved what you said in your application. Please give us a call back so we can set up a time. Thank you!"
He froze.
"What the hell is this?!"
I blinked, sweet as honey. "You told me to apply."
And then he exploded. Raging. Furious. Humiliated. Calling me every name he could think of, slut, whore, disgusting. Why would I ever consider doing something like that?! What kind of mother applies to be an escort?!
The kind who knows her worth, that's who.
And I? I laughed.
Because for once, I had proof. Proof that someone out there, someone professional, someone outside our tiny, toxic world, saw value in me.
I wasn't too fat. I wasn't too tall. I wasn't too ugly.
I was wanted. I was seen.
And I will never forget the look on his face. Worth more than every escort paycheck I never collected. For once, I didn't have to yell to be heard. I let the voicemail speak for me.
That was the day I realized that even if I wasn't his ideal, I was still desirable. Still valid. Still worth something.
Funny enough, years later, when I was finally single again, I actually did consider becoming an escort.
Not because I needed the money. Because I was good at dating. Really good.
I loved getting to know new people. Loved dressing up. Telling stories. Laughing. Making someone feel like they were the most interesting person in the room, for an hour or two, anyway.
And more than anything? I loved how they made me feel. Wanted. Desired. Complimented. Enough.
Even now, people tell me how amazing I am on dates. How fun I am. How magnetic. And it's wild to think that the same woman once got told she was too ugly to be hired for sex work… by the man who claimed to love her.
Joke's on him.
I would've been the most booked girl in the city. And not just for the body shots.
For the personality. For the connection. For the power.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾｡⋆
Turns out, rewriting my role wasn't a one-time thing. I'd done it before, just on a messier, more personal stage.
See, long before I almost became a professional date-night fantasy, I held a different title:
The Family Fuck-Up.
I was the one who ran off.The one who eloped young.The one who made all the mistakes my parents swore their kids would never make.
And because of me?
The entire dynamic of our household changed.After I blew up the perfect-child image, my parents had to regroup. Reassess. Relearn.
They became better. Softer.A little wiser. A little less judgmental.A lot more snacks and a lot less screaming.
My three youngest siblings?They got to date.They got curfews that made sense.They got car rides, heart-to-hearts, and emotional support instead of emotional warfare.
I don't want to say it was all because of me.
But it was like… 90%.You're welcome.
If anything, I should be nominated for sainthood.Or at least reimbursed.
Honestly, I might drop my Venmo in the family group chat with a simple:
"For services rendered."
Because sometimes, being the black sheep means you paved the road with your own damn wool.And sure, maybe I was the cautionary tale…But I was also the blueprint.
So whether it was for escort interviews or accidental revolution, one thing has always been true:
I change the room just by walking in.
And I don't need anyone's permission to keep doing it.