After boot camp, a misnomer if ever there was one -- we don't wear boots or get to eat s'mores around the campfire -- the tradition is as follows. Thelda, a tall drink of unfiltered water, and I say that with love, continues to work out on the stairmaster. An hour of sweating just isn't enough for her. The SJG, on the other hand, the left one, to be exact, prefers to restrict the suffering to the designated hour. While Thelda climbs heroically, I try to stretch my sore anatomy back into working order. For 15 minutes, or until I need to take a dainty pish, we swap stories and philosophize. You think I go to the dark side? Thelda makes me look like Tinker Bell.
Thelda: "How's your week going?"
Me: "Fine. How about yours?"
Thelda: "No 911 calls. Yet."
Me: "That's something."
Thelda: "I did hear two horrible stories, though."
Me: "I don't want to hear them."
Thelda: "They're not that bad."
Me: "You just said they were horrible."
Thelda: "I'm downgrading them to bad."
Me: "I still don't want to hear them."
Thelda: "I forget you're a petal."
Me: "You got that right, sistah."
Thelda: "I need to be reminded sometimes."
Me: "Try to remember that, would you?"
Thelda: "I'll do my best. So, anyway, this woman I know from work collapsed at the nail salon and --"
Me: "I'm going now."
Thelda: "Wait. It has a happy ending."
Me: "See you Friday."
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