Sunday Racquetball with Marovich, Part Deux

So in between games of getting my ass kicked in racquetball today, Marovich and I sat down for a moment to discuss life and swig from our water bottles, wishing they were gin and juice (cue up Snoop Dogg: “LAID back…got my mind on my money and my money on my mind…”). There was no shortage of longshoreman speak, and we noted the men in the next court were not nearly as bad as we were. Perhaps they were clergymen. Mother, not followed by “Superior,” was our word of the day. (The first mention being fueled, no pun intended, by Dave Dorman leaving my gas tank on fumes the morning I’m running late. But…karma’s a bitch…a blonde bitch who goes by “Denise.”)

So Marovich and I were discussing muscle groups and various workouts when I made the mistake of telling her–of all people–that I inadvertently showed up for a pole class at my dance studio last week. It seems the term “Vertical Fitness” is my studio’s synonym for “Pole Class.” Who knew?

Or in my case, to shower me with singles...

In my case, to shower me with singles…

As I was attempting to quickly recover and gloss over that part of the story to explain which of my muscle groups needed a turbo-charge, Marovich held up her right hand in that “Stop” position, interrupting.

“Wait! You’ve waited until NOW to tell ME you went to a POLE class?

“Was it raining singles?!? 

“Is there an observation deck where I can watch you take this pole class?!?”

The fact that the owner didn’t even charge me for taking the class should’ve been some indication of my level of participation.

Just because...this looks like Marovich's new kitten and it sorta kinda ties in with the blog today.

Just because…this looks like Marovich’s new kitten, and it sorta kinda ties in with today’s blog.

Post racquetball, we were watching our weekly allotment of Schitt’s Creek episodes at her house and I was trying to recall the final score. Even in the heat of play, Alzheimer’s patients do better than me at remembering game scores. I thought it was 19 to zero (despite the fact that I did, indeed, serve 19 times but couldn’t close the sale), but I needed verification. “Is this for your blog?” Marovich asked, raising her right brow in her inimitable John Belushi style. That right eyebrow of hers gets such a workout, it has its own biceps. I confirmed. “Then I would tell people it was 15 to zero,” she advised. “We don’t want them thinking you played me in a wheelchair.”

Whenever I need that humility check, I can always count on Marovich. That’s what BFFs are for.

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