The Saga Continues

Friday, May 7th. I am awakened by the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs into my sleeping quarters. Well not really, because my sister is a vegetarian and lives in a one floor apartment, but she has made me breakfast. After a delicious meal of pancakes with homemade syrup, she tells me it's time for what I have been dreading for the past week, when I first heard of it; Wipe Your Ass off the Floor with Stuart. Okay, it's actually called Total Body Performance, but if I had had any energy after the class, I would definitely have used it to pick up my ass of the floor.

Things I was told about Stuart, the instructor, beforehand:

1. "His arms are as big as my thighs."

2. He is a chiropractor

Things I was not told:

1. He is encouraging and sweet as sugar

2. and as spicy as jambalaya ;)

(Clearly since the first thing my mind associates everything with is food, I needed to be at this class.)

Needless to say, typing on these keys are the only movements my total body will be performing today. I'll be lucky to be able to move again by August.

5:00: to most people, quittin' time. For Amy, its the beginning of her 10-hour shift at the bar. My first 4 hours there go by relatively unnoteworthily (watch for it, it'll be a Scrabble-accepted word soon). A young guy sitting next to me asks if i "come here often." ... I didn't know people actually used that line in real life. Within the first five minutes, I know his whole life story, from everywhere he has lived, the education statuses of his six siblings, his father's health issues, you get the picture. He asked if I wanted to go get a movie with him, but unfortunately I had to decline; I felt I already knew everything about him and couldn't imagine what we would talk about in the time to and from the theater. Wouldn't want an awkward situation now, would we?

For the next two hours, I was gloriously saved by a phone call from the wonderful 978. But with the end of my phone's battery came the end of the refuge, and I had to snap back to reality. As I sat outside enjoying the warm southern breeze, I heard those dreaded 5 words come from behind me; "Would you like some company?" What is up with these Carolinian men thinking that I always need their company?! Clearly I need to take some tips from Kelly Clarkson on how to be Miss Independent. I turned around and saw the most stereotypical Creeper with a capital C. Middle-aged, long gray crazy hair, a coy look on his face. I wonder where he parked his white van.

"Oh, I'm just.... enjoying watching the traffic...." I stammer. PLEASE PLEASE GET THE HINT

awkward silence

"I'm Paul, by the way." Nope, hint was lost.

handshake. awkward silence.

"I'd love to chat..." Really, man?! come on now clearly I am trying to avoid you at all costs.

So through our "chat," we find out that we share an interest in photography. He whips out a yellow plastic camera as big as a brick and asks if I want my picture taken. Is that a serious question, you psychotic, pedophiliac?! I tell him I prefer to be behind the camera than in front of it, which anyone and their mother could tell you is a falsehood. Luckily, after about 20 minutes, he decides he's going to go in to listen to the music. Sounds like an escape route, if you ask me. Clearly I wasn't entertaining enough. I'm insulted. And yet so, so thrilled.