Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Big Developments
I know I've written here before about my kickboxing class and the various delightful characters that populate it. There's High Kicks, the guy who makes basic self defense look like the Rockettes, and Sniffles, the girl who is always five minutes late and brings her own box of kleenex. Then there's Cat Lady, an older gal who's had a lot of plastic surgery and does all the moves like she's afraid of falling and not being able to get up, and Bald Guy With Glasses, whose nickname is actually pretty self explanatory. We've also had some new additions since I last wrote, like Big Red and The Lady Who Screams The Count Really Loud But Completely Off Beat (better nickname pending), but I won't get too far into them, as I'm sure they'll be amply covered in your next Us Weekly. What I wanted to add to this scenario, though, is that the Regulars (as we collectively call them) have a clique with one another that talks endlessly with the teacher after class, knows each other's real names, jobs, and cat health histories, and remembers each other's birthdays demonstratively. They have, of course, largely ignored me over the past year and I have returned the favor with maximum prejudice. But in the past few months, as I've increased my attendance from once a week to twice (or even three times in the week my knees almost fell out of my body), they've started giving me head nods, looks of recognition, and even assorted small talk. That's right, I've arrived. And it makes me feel like taking a bath with the toaster.
I know I've written here before about my kickboxing class and the various delightful characters that populate it. There's High Kicks, the guy who makes basic self defense look like the Rockettes, and Sniffles, the girl who is always five minutes late and brings her own box of kleenex. Then there's Cat Lady, an older gal who's had a lot of plastic surgery and does all the moves like she's afraid of falling and not being able to get up, and Bald Guy With Glasses, whose nickname is actually pretty self explanatory. We've also had some new additions since I last wrote, like Big Red and The Lady Who Screams The Count Really Loud But Completely Off Beat (better nickname pending), but I won't get too far into them, as I'm sure they'll be amply covered in your next Us Weekly. What I wanted to add to this scenario, though, is that the Regulars (as we collectively call them) have a clique with one another that talks endlessly with the teacher after class, knows each other's real names, jobs, and cat health histories, and remembers each other's birthdays demonstratively. They have, of course, largely ignored me over the past year and I have returned the favor with maximum prejudice. But in the past few months, as I've increased my attendance from once a week to twice (or even three times in the week my knees almost fell out of my body), they've started giving me head nods, looks of recognition, and even assorted small talk. That's right, I've arrived. And it makes me feel like taking a bath with the toaster.
