Haste makes red face
There are
times when I write this column when I feel like I might give the illusion that
I have my life put together. If I’m being honest, with the power of the pen I
could script through these paragraphs the façade of something picture perfect.
But that’s
not fun. It’s also not true. And if we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’re missing
some good material.
First, some
background information. I had recently donated a private dance fitness class
for a fundraiser. An amazing woman purchased the class as a Christmas gift for
her friends. “I like to give my friends an experience,” she said. I thought it
was a brilliant idea! Latin dancing to Christmas music sounded like a great way
to celebrate the holiday with some gal pals.
I knew that
before I was going to introduce this nice lady and her friends to salsa and
other such moves, I would have already taught two fitness classes that morning.
Knowing how I tend to look like I ran through a sprinkler after I work out and
how the aromatic scent of my sweat is less than pleasant, I thought I would do
the right thing and change my clothes before their class began.
On a side
note, much to my mother’s chagrin, I am not a big fan of laundry or folding.
More than once I have taken things from the dryer and tossed them in a basket
only to set the basket in the closet where I rummage through in hopes of two
clean things that match.
To set the
scene of that day in the fitness studio, I had just a few minutes between my
last class and when the donated class started. In filed the ladies, all dressed
well and with fantastic class. In fact, they were so sophisticated that I
became instantly nervous because I wanted them to really enjoy my class. I
welcome them and chatted for a minute and then announced that I wanted to
change out of my sweaty stink clothes before their class began.
Nerves tingling,
I grabbed clothes from my bag and sprinted to the locker room to change.
You know
how sometimes in the dryer clothes get tangled up in each other where they
aren’t supposed to be? And sometimes when you don’t fold them you don’t know
they’re even there?
As the
story goes, when I came back into the studio the lovely woman asked, I hope
jokingly, “What kind of class is this?” and referenced to the middle of the
room where in my haste and laziness an old pair of underwear had fallen out of
my wadded up clothes and was splayed out for all to see.
Note to
self: Fold your laundry but be thankful that when you drop undergarments in a public
place, at least they are clean.
Originally written 12.4.16
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