Bizarre with a capital B

I’m not 100% sure why bizarre stuff happens to me.  But it does. 

Take, for example, this morning.  I was halfway through my Saturday 10k on the treadmill in the basement.  Sonny comes to the top of the stairs wrapped in a blanket with his p.j. pants sticking out from underneath, “Mom, Mom!  Someone’s at the door.”

I too would be embarrassed to open the door wrapped in a blanket, so I trudge upstairs to relieve Sonny of door duty.  I swing wide the door and I SWEAR to you, Mr. Clean is standing on my front porch holding a clipboard.

On closer inspection, the guy is just as bald AS, but slightly smaller THAN, Mr. Clean (and I’m pretty sure I could take him in a hipcheck contest).  He’s not wearing the signature earring (left is right, right is wrong) and he’s not dressed in the slenderizing, color-blocked white.

Ok, pretty darn close, but not Mr. Clean after all.  He confirms it by saying in a Russian accent, “Hello.  I am Marco.  I here from Lifetime Fitness.”

I say, “Uh…Hi, Marco.”  I’m clearly puzzled and am almost convincing myself that Lifetime Fitness is now making random house calls to see if citizens are working out the way they should be.

He states again, “I here!” and spreads one hand wide like a magician would.

Me: “Yes, you are.  Can I help you?”

However, Mr. Clean Marco is stunned into silence as he takes in the fact that I am CLEARLY a sweaty mess and smell like Stank Ho Day Three.  Seriously stunned.  All he can do is point from my once-white-now-dingy-gray headband worn John McEnroe style, past the sweat-bib-staining-my-shirt-almost-to-my-bellybutton, all the way down to my loosely tied running shoes.

That’s fine.  Look your fill.  All that and a bag of chips, right, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch?  Besides, this moment which has been brought to you by the Sound Of Silence has afforded me the opportunity to glance down at his clipboard and see that my next-door neighbor’s information is written on it.

I reply to his non-verbal cues by saying, “Yes, Marco.  I’m already working out and I don’t need your help.  They need you more next door.”  And I point to his clipboard.

He turns it up, glances at it, then exclaims, “Sorry, sorry!  Me so sorry.”

Yeah, yeah.  You soooo sorry, Marco.  Either way, head out.  It’s not even 10 a.m. and I’m already over it. 

Because once again, this has been bee-zarrr with…how do you say?…a Cabeedull Bee.

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