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yoga platter

2004-07-21 - 10:54 p.m.

One of my friends wants to teach yoga at my job. I told him you don't understand. It's not Mattel, and there's no LL Bean crew hanging around the water cooler. I don't think he believed me, so I had to go to level II.

The only thing the people are really interested in doing there is talking about what they'll be eating for lunch. That converstion starts at around 8 in the morning. Everyone calls each other interofficely to find out what they're eating four hours later, which is the equivalent of coffee for one or two of them. When I first started there I thought who the fuck cares what you're eating? But now I pay attention, not because I care, but because I've possibly become one of them.

I told him space wise he could probably teach in the warehouse, but he couldn't pull any of that funny tai chi or fire breathing dragon shenanigans with the mouth open routine like in his other classes where people are actually conscious. He agreed not to, but I still don't think he understands the warehouse guys or any other people at the job site.

A while ago, I was feeling really happy about how cool the warehouse guys were, they do a lot for us, they fix everything, they have good jokes, they build shelves, furniture, what have you. I thought we should make them a cake and just - give it to them. One of the girls in our dept. made this awesome chocolate number and it said something like we love you guys in the warehouse. So thanks. Tyrone came out and said "so what is it you all want from us? I know y'all must want something."

I told him what, someone can't just make you a cake for no reason?"

"Naw, not unless they wanted something first. Come on, what y'all want from us?"

Not gonna be in the yoga class.

My friend said he only needed like four or six people for the class. So I told him about some of the women I work with. Two are ex gang members, one is in my dept. and the other one we are certain is ingesting something in the bathroom stall every day that incorporates a large metal spoon and a small cup of H2O. For months we've been trying to figure out which drug it is, because it seems to take 20-30 minutes of bathroom time a day, and someone has suggested she turns 180 degrees the other way in the stall. A curious party taped a compact mirror to her shoe to try and see what drug might be burning in there, but it only allowed for a seeing range of shin to waist high.

Being an efficient dept., we troubleshot some ideas on how to attain the identity of the substance.

(knocking at stall) "Can you hand me some?" or "do you have any? Tissue paper?"

"What are you doing?"

Peering over the top of the stall. ("Oop, I thought you were _____! I was going to play a practical joke on her....so what are you doing?"

May or may not make it to the yoga class, but I will see you in group, I'm sure.

Trixie upstairs in Customer Psuedo Service would actually sign up. In fact, we might have to pay her not to. From all outward appearances, it's as though she's been taking yoga forever, especially if this were 1978, though I have never seen outfit combos like Trixies - wool flannel shirts, in conjunction with skirts that are (in a race with her hair) to the floor, legwarmers, thick wool socks, and Berkinstocks. In summer. I'm always cold too, but this is a crime.

I honestly can't think of more than 5 people there that exercise regularly, unless you count multiple trips to Pollo Loco because they always forget Angie's Pollo Chicken Bowl. But I told my friend let's have hope, someone will take your class. If you bring snacks.

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