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Friday, November 18, 2005
My bellydancing night class takes place in a high school gym. It's a very boring class so I can't help but think about time. How late is it? Have twenty minutes passed? I am having fun! Weeeeeeeeee! Time, are yous peeding up? Is it almost time to go home?
Like all high school gyms, this one comes without a clock.
It just kills me.
It's already bad enough that there are no mirrors in a dance class and that the instructor spends one sentence of her time on teaching new techniques. Without a clock, I can't evenly allocate my limited quota of faking having a good time to all parts of the hour.
By the end of dance class, I and my only buddies, a very hip Iranian mother and her two teen knockout daughters, become very, very sarcastic. We've all used up out fun quotas. We get tangled up in the veils and groan whenever the teacher plays the song about Cairo.
Once my fun quota is used up I begin thinking about zombies. They are outside the gym and they will break through the windows. I can use the ping tables to block the gym door but the tables will only slow them down. Zombies cannot be stopped.
Every week during class, I study the ceiling. I could climb to the top in the eventuality of a zombie attack. From that vantage point, I could watch the carnage unfolding below.
Once the zombies are busy with my classmates, I could possibly kick out the windows at the top of the gym.
Then I could make a run for it to the donair shop across the street. You know, for weapons.
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