So the other night I went to the gym. It had been a long day and I was tired. It was about 8:00 at night. I did my usual workout and as I was leaving I saw a reflection in the window of a girl who was obviously not pregnant (as evidenced by the maternity sweat pants whose crotch hung down to her knees) wearing a too small sweatshirt covered in varnish and paint stains that read "Baroque: When you are out of Monet" and pink tennis shoes with silver reflectors. She also had a brown paint streak down one side of her face and hair full of felt and cotton clippings. This woman was obviously not fit to be out in public.
And who was this poor beast you ask? Unfortunately it was me. And as I reflected on what had brought me to my present state I realized I didn't even have a bra on. Oh well. At least I don't have to worry about anyone trying to pick me up at the gym. And I'm happy to note that no one tried to pick me up at the gas station either when I stopped there on my way home for a Dr. Pepper. Apparently there are some perks to looking like you're crazy.
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