The other day I was contorting through a routine at
jazzercise class, looked down, and spotted a mangy Q-tip lying on the floor. I
was mesmerized—yet horrified at the same time. My reaction was one of
“journalistic” disgust.
WHO threw
the nasty Q-tip on the gymnasium floor?
WHAT detestable disease lay hidden between the fluffy folds of cotton?
WHEN will it ever be removed?
WHERE can I go to get away from it?
WHY is the darn thing annoying me so much?
HOW can I stay focused on the exercise combos when the odious object continues to stare up at me in indignant defiance?
WHAT detestable disease lay hidden between the fluffy folds of cotton?
WHEN will it ever be removed?
WHERE can I go to get away from it?
WHY is the darn thing annoying me so much?
HOW can I stay focused on the exercise combos when the odious object continues to stare up at me in indignant defiance?

I contemplated picking it up and removing the offensive item myself — but what if it had been up someone’s nose? Eeewwww.
I signaled to the gal next to me, hoping she’d notice the
threat that loomed below our feet and she
would pick it up—look down, Linda
–D-O-W-N! But she thought my waving arms and wild eyes were part of the
exercise, and she totally ignored the little bugger.
I opted to dance around it for awhile—but ye Gods, what if it gets stuck to my shoe? I nearly sprained my
ankle and dislocated some vertebrae trying to dodge that bullet.
I shot a look of quiet desperation in the instructor’s
direction—help me, can’t you see the vile
creature disrupting your routines? Unfortunately, she was more concerned with my
incongruous gyrations, than the need to help me rid the room of a threat the
magnitude of the Ebola virus.

Then, at long last, class was over. I could finally rid
myself of the filthy beast forever—but
what if it’s still there tomorrow?
The horror was too much to contemplate.

I promise—someday you’ll thank me.
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