Alright, so I’m not going to be consistent with these Friday updates, obviously, but who’s surprised?
Here are a couple of my double takes from the week (last week- -when I didn’t write a darn thing).
1. Hot Yoga Breather Cheaters
I was indulging in my weekly (as weekly as my posts…) hot yoga torture ritual, and hazarded a glance to between my knees and to the back of the room after striking a pathetic downward-dog pose. I always like to check out what other sorts of people, beside the svelte faux-chested ladies that can wear their thighs like a tiara, attend the class. In addition to myself, I take note of which thing is not like the other.
As I am lifting my derrier to the heavens, and sneaking a peek, I’m surprised to see a feeble and withered looking gent with a shocking amount of hair all over his chest and back, and then I notice a tube coming from somewhere and linking to a large bottle-ish thing on the floor beside his mat. For a moment, I thought he had himself intravenously hooked up to a Camelback to stay hydrated, which I thought was weirdly clever, and then I realized that it was running to his schnoz. The hose was seriously long. I wondered if he knew that we were not going to running laps around the room at any point.
Some of you may think, “Wow. Kudos to an emaciatedand clearly unwell man schlepping an oxygen tank with an extra long hose so as not to interrupt his extended warrior pose,” but not this girl. As I heaved and sopped my way through an hour of torture, inhaling stale, 115 degree air, I contemplated whether he would be offended if I asked,
“Namaste, good sir. Does that tank there blow cool air for you, and if so, does it come in colors other than black?”
2. Foam Caesar’s and Minimum Wage Worker Enthusiasm
I was making my weekly run to the ABC store for tequila when When driving to the store the other day, I drove past a shopping center where a Little Caesar’s had just opened. (I had no idea anyone still ate their food). Out by the road was, I assume, a Little Caesar’s employee, bedecked in a huge foam costume depicting that fat Caesar guy with the nose that blends straight into his mouth. He was rocking out to some inaudible tune, waving a sign about cheap pizza and guaranteeing its goodness.
I thought for a moment about what circumstance I would need to be in to be convinced to put on a suit and dance in public with apparent excitement for dough, sauce and cheese, but came up with nothing beyond a cocaine habit that needed funding, and even that was only plausible because there was a costume involved that would ensure anonymity.
I drove a few more feet and there, beside the road, in khaki pants and a polo with the pizza joint’s logo, was a second employee, ALSO rocking out to invisible tunage, for no apparent reason. No costume. Same side of the road, so it wasn’t like he was catching rush hour in the other direction. Just a man. Pop and locking his heart out on the Parkway. I could think of nothing a manager could have said to convince this guy to get crazy on the roadside for pizza with no mask when there was a similar fool 15 feet away. And yet, there he was.