Charlie Sheen is in the news. Who cares.
When I wake up I'm just another nameless middle class white woman pushing 50 complaining about hot flashes with wrinkled PJs and a bag of cat shit to put in the trash on my way out the door. But, and this is so cool - my key is in the ignition, I hit the road, it's 4:45, I'm off to the Y, and by the time I pull into the parking lot I'm younger, stronger, determined, proud, littler and bitchier. I turn into S.L.B. I'm rockin' and ready to save the world!
No one knows my Secret Identity. I push it, 2 or 3 hours working out. I feel great. I cool down and shower and dress and dry and style and I go to Do My Face and whoooooa! Who is that old lady looking back at me in the mirror??? She looks like a freakin' librarian! Good. I'll have them all fooled. This is really just a disguise. I quietly enter the workforce.
The Roadrunner and I finally exchanged first names this week. This is the first step to revealing our Secret Identities. Her comment was, that after a while, Y groupies become like family. I corrected her: we are more like fly by night lovers because we never know a last name. She laughed but I didn't get her phone number.
Foxy Roxy finally got her Pool Name. She kept trying to get me to giggle in Pilates while I was lying on my back, trying to balance a stability ball on the bottom of my feet. I made it look easy, but what she doesn't know is that I have a secret superpower: sweaty sticky socks.
Sadly, by 5:00 pm, M-F, all the magic has worn off. I am finally revealed. OH MY GOD, I AM A LIBRARIAN. I am shorter, fatter, wrinkled, irritable, wearing glasses with a string attached, and I need a drink. The only competition here is to be the quietest and the oldest.
But there is always tomorrow morning, when the transformation will again turn me into S.L.B., and at least for now I don't have a bag of shit in my hand.
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