Oh no you di'int!

If this is Tuesday, it's spin class day.
The Tuesday noon class is taught by instructor extraordinaire, complete with dreeeeamy South African accent. This week, however, Mr. Woonderbaar was away. His replacement was more like Liberace than Lance Armstrong. He was kinda short, kinda cute, and kinda... well...girly. He was, I think Filipino. The microphone amplified his accent, and an unfortunate lisp made following his rapid fire instructions just a wee bit more difficult, though alot more fun: Thpinners, increase rethithtance, thlow and thteady, and puuuuth through the pain!!!!
He had short spiky hair coloured steely grey, more of a fashion accessory judging by his unlined baby face. He wore a coordinating outfit in vivid yellow Lycra, in ladies sized medium. Yes, he told us. He said it thowed his thape the betht. Actually.

But here's the best part: 5 minutes into it, it was clear this was the best put together, most fun and by far most challenging class this veteran gym rat has ever taken.

So there I am, eyes closed, panting and puthing, when in sashays Miss I'm Too Sexy For Your Partay. Red hair a-swaying, purple bell bottoms just barely covering her southern cleavage, and a face that's all injectables. I have seen her about two hundred times in various classes and have observed one constant. She only speaks to those who have a penis. To everyone else, she is mute.

She is late. The class is past the warm-up, and well into a first set of intervals designed to separate the fittest from the mere mortals. She smiles, sashays over to her bike, taking the time to greet all the men in her row by first name. Her bike is directly behind me.

Less than one minute later, she surpasses her own previous record on the chutzpuh meter.She announces that this is not the regular instructor (thank you Sherlock)and where is Mr. Wuunderbaar?? And what was he thinking not to have forcasted his absence due to illness at last week's class? And, she demanded, who was this funny looking little man??(Funny looking little biaatch is what she really said).

Since she was surrounded by a small harem on all sides, this diatribe was directed to the nearest male thyclist, sitting two bikes over. And all delivered at a volume to be heard above Lady Gaga and her Love Games.

Mercifully the Lycra banana kept on going, oblivious to Miss I'm Too Sexy.
Was I the only plebeian gobsmacked by the goings on in the outskirts of Marginalia? And as if on cue, Donna Summer came blasting through the sound system at full volume, commanding: Go on now, go. Walk through that door. Don't you know that your not welcome anymore!

I'm down with that, she announced. Then she left, sashaying out just as she arrived.