There's Something About Jennifer

Today marked the first time in about four months since I've used the gym at my job. I work in a building with a very complex layout, making finding the gym no easy feat for a newbie. My first time wandering through it, in my confusion at the lack of signs, I ventured into the men's dressing room by mistake. After encountering a naked man, another man shouted "This is the men's room. Leave!" I backed out apologetically, but based on his reaction, you'd think I was a lunatic. So that's why I never went back down there. Until today.

Nothing eventful took place. This post isn't even about the gym, I'm just rambling.

There's something about Jennifer. I would love to see an analysis of whatever energy I'm putting out into the universe. I attract the most "interesting" people to put it nicely. I always have. I have some funny and not so funny stories, but I'll just write about what happened to me after I left the gym this evening. Wow, so the gym does tie into this some kind of way. So I did my thing on the treadmill and my legs were a little tired afterward. I decided to catch the bus home and walked about two blocks to the bus stop.

About six or so minutes into my wait, a man who appeared to be in his 40's came to stand beside me. I noticed that he had an arm full of folders with papers protruding from them and had a satchel of some sort on his shoulder.

"How long have you been waiting?" he asked.

"Oh, about five minutes." He laughed.

[Now before I continue, I'll need you to channel one of the characters that Tracy Morgan played on SNL. A character named "Brian Fellows," a nature show host whose sexual orientation was questionable and who asked the most ignorant questions with an attitude, almost angrily, and with a stereotypical "diva" delivery. Click here to view a Hulu clip.]

"So did you go to any of the free concerts they had yesterday. Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin?" he continued.

"No, I didn't."

"Well why not! It's free!"

"I usually hear about things after they've happened, unfortunately."

As if I'd asked him to do so, the man proceeded to open one of the folders under his arm and pull out a packet of photocopied images of Diana Ross. He got closer for a little show and tell of his special collection.

"Do you see this jacket she's wearing, just look at that. Oh and those boots. Can you wear boots like that?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so."

"She looks so good to be 63. If you put your finger over her face like this, you'd think she was twenty something. Don't she look twenty something?"

"Yeh she does. Looks better than me. She looks real good."

The bus approached. "You catching this bus? Good, when we sit down I can show you the rest."

The female bus driver opened the door to let passengers off. While we waited, the man surveyed the driver, turned to me, and asked "Now she is in bad taste. Don't you think she's in bad taste?"

"Uh, I'm neutral. I don't have anything to say." The only thing I could imagine he didn't approve of were the woman's two-toned braids. But I was wearing braids as well. So I was quite confused.

"Well you either think she's in bad taste or you don't!"

So we get on the bus. He sits across from me and finishes the show and tell.

"You want this magazine?" he asked while offering me the lastest issue of Jet.

"No thank you."

"Well why not? I have two!"

Apparently, he was still appalled at the driver who was in bad taste. She must have triggered his memory of other experiences with such women.

"I walked up to this lady and I said 'Can I ask you a question?' She said yes, and I said 'How long have you been friends with bad taste?' She said 'Excuse me?' and I said 'Why do you have your m's confused? If you had a (m)irror you wouldn't look a (m)ess?"

"Wow," I replied, for lack of anything else. The man was attracting some attention from the other passengers, and as a result, so was I.

"She said 'For your information, I have 15 mirrors in my house.' So I said 'Well that leads to my next question. Why aren't you using any of them?'"

"Wow."

"Yes I did. And then there was this other lady with this real messed up weave. I said 'Excuse me, can I ask you a question? Why do you have your l's confused. She said 'What are you talking about?' I said 'It's not the (l)ength, it's how it (l)ooks.'"

We arrived at my stop and the man and I exchanged goodbyes as if we'd had run of the mill conversation. Ladies and gentleman, this is but one of the tales of my life here in the District. And so I sigh as I sip on the coffee that's pictured above. My adoration of my name wouldn't allow me to leave it on the shelf of the Smithsonian's gift store.