Thursday, October 10, 2013

My Bus Buddy (warning: low brow pop cultural references ahead)
This morning I went to the German Barbie, otherwise known as my dermatologist, and had photodyamic therapy or an IPL treatment on my face to get rid of some old acne scars and sun damage. I was worried about how it would be to go to work at the fancy gym afterwards because there is some residual redness and freckling for three or four days until the spots wipe off. The treatment itself is no picnic; it is more like a barbecue complete with the odor of burning flesh, but afterwards I just had a light sunburn effect that went away within three hours. Classes have been more crowded lately because it is high season for gym goers in Lucca so that is fun, but it is still like being under a constant microscope.


F had to teach in Massarossa and I didn't have a ride home so I found my bus buddy. He knows just when to raise his hand for the bus to make it stop. It's different from hailing a taxi and the timing has to be just right. We got right back into our regular routine of his feeling my biceps to make sure they were strong and his challenging me to an arm wrestle. I don't know what my bus buddy's deal is exactly. He speaks slowly and has a wandering eye, but he has an awesome memory and knew that I had switched to a new gym bag and remembered when I had bruised my arm last February and thought to ask me about my trip to Dublin this past August. He never talks to me once we get on the actual bus. I assume that it is because he is embarrassed to be seen with me. He never follows me home or asks me any personal questions. He is the perfect bus buddy. It has been a while since I have had to take the pullman, as my bus buddy calls it. Today he was all excited to arm wrestle me. So much so that I agreed. We sat at the plastic tables in front of the pizzeria by the bus stop, but just as he squared off our chairs and got us into position, a man walked by and he said we would have to have a delay of game until next week when he hoped we could have more privacy. Yeah, I thought that was weird, too.

Then I started thinking about the foot fetish contestant on the American reality television show The Bachelorette. Kinky stuff. I decided to deflect from my amazingly normal biceps and bring up this guest teacher who lives in America who visited last February and is a real body builder who did competitions and has some photos up on her website. He made me promise to bring him a photo for Friday and I agreed because it made me feel very like the character Hannah/Belle from Secret Diary of a Call Girl. If this is too trashy for you, I understand and you can bow out from this post right now. For those of you who don't know, Secret Diary of a Call Girl was all about this young, beautiful English woman who felt a vocation to help people realize their fantasies in as charming and germ-free a way as possible, which I respect. I am so weird.

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