So, then?

Ahhhh, Minneapolis. You are home to so many warm memories and so many great friends.

I had the pleasure of convening with a few of my favorite people on Friday night to celebrate the 24th birthday of my bestest friend in the whole wide world, Nazzy Bean. (Known to the rest of the world as Natalie). Did we have a regular ol’ party? GOODNESS NO!

Nazzy and I along with six of Nazzy’s nearest and dearest costumed up and had a rip-roaring, cheesy night of the wonderful world of murder mystery dinner party extraordinaire!!!

There was food, there was laughter, there was murder, there was intrigue… it was amazing. It’s so great to get together with old friends (and new friends) and just have a silly old time. And I was not the murderer, in case you wondered.

Fast forward to today, where I attended my second Zumba class of the week. Yes, that’s right. I gave in and joined the Y. I put down roots. A little part of my soul died.

I explained my main hesitation about moving back to Minnesota when I started this new blog, but another one has surfaced since being back. (I know, right? I realize I’m overanalytical and most people could just move home without having to consider every point and concern, but… I’m special.) Another reason I moved to Denver was to get away from people. A specific person at first, but I realized while in Denver that I cherished my anonymity there. No one (outside of my housemates and coworkers) knew who I was. I relished that fact. I liked being unknown. And now being back I run into people at Target and the library and now at the Y. And then I have this horrible moment where I don’t know what to do- run and hide or pretend I don’t seem them or actually acknowledge their presence.

It’s hard because most of the people I see here are not people I like. And then when I see them, I think to myself, “Oh no! Now I look like a townie* and they’re going to laugh at me and think I’ve done nothing with my life!”

* Technically I can’t even BE a townie because I live in a suburb…

It reminds me of 1) Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion and 2) a comic I read in yesterday’s funnies. A woman and her husband are at the mall when the woman sees an old high school acquaintance.

  • Carol: Janet? Janet Flossblum?
  • Janet: Carol?? Oh my gosh I haven’t seen you since high school!
  • Carol: I know! What have you been up to?
  • Janet: Well, I’m a supermodel, radio talk show host, and assistant ambassador to Uganda. Oh, and my first book is due out this fall. What about you?
  • Carol: I teach middle school part-time and I’ve recently taken up gardening.
  • Janet: That’s um… interesting.
  • Carol: So, I assume you’ll be at the class reunion next month.
  • Janet: Wouldn’t miss it! Well, I have to catch a flight to Rio. Great to see ya!

Now don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with teaching or part-time work. Or gardening. AT ALL. It certainly beats my unemployment status at the moment. But, aaahhh!! I DON’T WANT TO BE THE SAME AS EVERYONE ELSE.

Ok. Rant over.

Back to today’s events at the Y.

I walked into the studio to see a man wearing the tightest shorts I’ve ever seen who was also sporting a Groucho Marx mustache and long hair. He was the instructor.

There were about eight other people in the studio and I was the youngest one, vastly different from my days at the gym in Denver where I was among 37 other people in a room built to hold 25 and was the biggest person by at least 20 pounds and the most uncoordinated (Denverites take their fitness seriously).

The elderly lady that looked almost exactly like my grandma shouted to the instructor, “So you speak the Spanish, then?”

To which he responded, “Sí, señora.”

To which the woman with a Tigger bandana on her head responded, “I speak the Spanish, too! Been learning it at the community college. Do you know what I’m saying? Comprende?”

This awkward interchange of him explaining that he “knows lots of Mexican people” so he’s “picked up the language and movements of Latin culture” continued well past the start time of the class. I stood there awkwardly wanting to shout, “Ok, he’s speaks the Spanish. We get it! Let’s move!” until he finally stopped talking long enough to start his iPod.

I thought things were going as well as a Latin aerobics class can go in elderly Minnesota-land until I realized the man with the compression socks standing next to me was not doing the mambo so much as he was waddling like a penguin, hands out at his sides and everything.

It was too much.

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

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One response to this post.

  1. Posted by Alyssa Boob on August 5, 2010 at 12:07 am

    I hate when someone I know from high school comes to my work. I feel so unaccomplished working at a grocery store.

    I should just say I invented Post-Its.

    Reply

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