Whip It Out.

For those of you who already know, please, don’t ruin the story.

So at work, I’m interviewing for a new coordinator. And today, we met with Gabe.

Gabe’s cute. We like that. We don’t have many of those at work. And since I really only called those I thought were qualified, we know he’s got what it takes. And with the way the interview went…

We’re reviewing marketing and researching and the like. I honestly don’t know how he came to say what he did. I imagine it was regarding my tits. I’m joking. But seriously. It was funny…

“….whip it out…”

Cute little dude with nice chops just said, “Whip it out,” to me.

Hired!

And the woman that I am just started to giggle. Looked away. Stared at Beth. She was fine. But not me. Whip it out was all I could hear. Or see.

I think he actually said, “I have taken Christ the Lord to my bosom and am now free,” but I heard, “whip it out.”

1000 points to my friend Gage (not Gabe) for his response to the story: “I’ve seen that movie.”

Me too Gage. Me too.

The American Way

No WAY!

A line wrapped around the building and a guy in a Spiderman Speedo and black wig was interviewing this group.

I was going to my gym - Gold's Gym in Venice, CA. It's a very well known gym as being the Mecca of Body Building. Honestly, it is the best gym I've ever been to (in my long line of 3 gyms, I can say this). But it's a magnificent blend of neighborhood workout / health enthusiasts and overgrown / overtanned body builders (both male and female).

It's inspiring.

This line? The interviews? The speedo? They're bringing back the "classic" competition network show: American Gladiator.

I watched a little of the auditions - the mini obstacle athletic course they built. There must be a twist about the Everyday Man competing because they were. I pondered the possible twist of this spectacle. Um...former wrestling champions come in to encourage or take down the contestants? Spontaneous doping tests? Hot dog eating competition?

I Play, While You Balloon.

Saturday night at Trader Joe's, I watched a sweet two-year-old girl playing with two green balloons. She was tied up in the string with the two balloons bouncing around her. It wasn't the image of a child dancing in glee like a commercial that's played during daytime soaps. She was more matter-of-fact about hanging out with her two toys. There was a give-and-take she seemed to understand. "I play, while you balloon." She was satisfied.

Then one floated to the supermarket ceiling.

She stood transfixed. Her dad tried to get her attention so they could leave. It was a balloon, the physics won out and the balloon floated away. He could handle this and knew she would too. But there wasn't really anything to handle. Actually, the situation became that she was hypnotized by the balloon bouncing around the ceiling. It did seem like she was a bit bummed, "But...you were just here. It was fun. How am I supposed to go on without my balloon?" I too became hypnotized. I wondered if driving home she'd think about her balloon and what it might be doing...or maybe on a family picnic, she'd get a flash – a memory – about that time at Trader Joe's when she had two green balloons and they were all tied up around her and how perfect everything felt. Nothing else mattered except for the balloons.

I thought about it. "I bet she does miss that balloon. I feel for her, but it's just a balloon. I wish I could explain to her about her predicament." It is ultimately insignificant. Loss.

And self-centered as I am, I thought about me.

Me and my contenting balloons. Playing and hanging with my own green rubbery toys, generally filled with hot circulating air. Or not. Whatever. I have my toys and my toys float away and I feel such anguish when they do. Such a betrayal when toytime is over, so unexpected and unwelcomed. With a seemingly ineffable morbid grief, I watch my pulsing heart as it lies beating its last measures on my bedroom (living room / kitchen / supermarket) floor. "Oh, how will I ever play again? Will there be another balloon? Wait?! Worse - Who's playing with my balloon now?" I'm staring at the ceiling, transfixed by grief - and now fear too. Over balloons.

Aye. But I have only lost a balloon. It is ultimately insignificant. Loss.

I am certainly not saying that the balloon is nothing. I am saying the loss is.