#2 Never, ever judge a book by its cover. How many times have you heard this or said this? I find that the educated, the curious, and the wise are good at faking it, and the young do not hold back. As with flocks of people, I venture out on my lunch hour almost every day to reconnect with the world. The other day, I was on the hunt for food (which is usually every 2 hours of every day that I am awake). I walked to Freebirds, a funky, build-your-own burrito factory that will not haunt you later in the day. You can even make tin foil objects from your wrapping and leave them for display or ultimate mutilation by a teenager. The young woman that checked me out was wearing an Insane Clown Posse ("ICP") t-shirt, and the speakers were blaring a Beastie Boys song to which I knew every word. I mentioned at the check out that the music was great, I liked her t-shirt and that I had been to an ICP concert. Not only that, I thought, with all of her tattoos and pink hair, I judged her a a hard-working, pleasant young woman. My judgment changed when she cracked up and stated "I can't believe you know who ICP is by looking at you." Now all I can think about is the girl on the plane. (Pictures of ICP too crude to include. The Beastie Boys are three jewish guys from the Bronx, nothing to show there either.)
#3 Do NOT take pilates from someone who wears camo! I thought the schedule said yoga at noon. My yoga mat was laid out, I was sans my running shoes, and I was ready for a zen lunch hour of yoga. I noticed everyone sitting at two ends of the room facing each other and that should have been my first clue. Then, the wildest and most unsettled woman I have ever encountered entered the room. She was about 6 foot tall with curly, curly blond Medusa-looking hair, incredibly bright red lipstick, a bathing suit top, a somewhat protruding belly that looked angry, some sort of orange warm-up pants and cammo toe shoes. She was discussing her most recent online dating adventure and a recent murder of a pilates teacher in the area. (Second clue, should have left.) It was too late to leave, the music started cranking and the madness began. There were crunches of the abs and butt, bar bells and limbs flailing everywhere, and lots of screaming. I had apparently read the schedule wrong. It was not yoga, it was pilates from hell! Mrs. Hitler was late getting there, so the torture was going to end in 45 minutes or when I dropped a dumbbell on my head. I managed to survive, not quite until the end, and escape. As I drove through the parking lot to leave, I spotted a green Jeep with a cammo wheel cover and a sign on the back that said "Extreme Pilates". I didn't know until that day that "extreme" and "pilates" went together, and I probably will not be able to walk or recover from the trauma for three days!
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