Hit by a Pitch

Archive for the ‘Bitching’ Category

Bad Weather & The Drought

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We Coloradans never object to the perpetuation of the misconception that it’s always cold and snowy here, because it’s generally understood to be the only reason everybody in the world doesn’t move to our glorious state. But now this shit is happening. I’m not even complaining about the rain, because we need it. But what’s up with Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday? Shit, that’s what.

No. This shit makes me feel kind of depressed and then angry, the kind of angry normally reserved for people who drive like assholes. Hey 25-degree Wednesday in mid April! How about you use your goddamn turn signal?!

I like winter, more or less, when it actually is winter.  But now it’s spring and we had a few nice, sit-outside-with-no-jacket-well-into-the-evening days but apparently those were just a tease and now it’s back to winter and covering up the poor little vegetables who have had the misfortune to start growing already. (Let’s not even talk about the poor little vegetables still inside or the gigantic edamame beanstalk that’s about to take over the house.) My skin is so dry my hands have those awful cuts you get when your skin is way too dry despite copious lotioning and I just want to be outside, enjoying life. I want to be outside! I want it to be nice! This unreasonably cold weather has gone on for too long! I’m sad like Margarita from The Master and Margarita (currently re-reading, which is why I’m obsessed) before she applied the cream and became a naked witch, flying on her broom in the moonlight outside Moscow.

Speaking of needing rain, we’re in a Stage 2 drought and there’s going to be some pretty hard-core enforcement of watering restrictions this summer. (More info. here.) (FYI: It’s okay to water annuals and vegetables any time with a hand-held hose or drip irrigation.) Can I be blunt? I’m already judging everybody who lives in the area and has a green lawn this summer. If you want a green lawn, you probably shouldn’t live in Colorado. It’s such a waste of water and I hope green lawns become totally unfashionable and widely regarded as a symbol of the kind of me-first-screw-everybody-else mentality good and enlightened people hope to avoid. Xeriscape! Grow food not lawns! I’m gonna have to write a Wesley Willis style song about conserving water! Rock over London! Rock on Chicago!

Written by Tracy

April 12th, 2013 at 2:05 pm

No Soliciting

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When I was a kid, my parents put a “No Soliciting” sign on our front door. I wasn’t a fan of the sign. I didn’t even know what soliciting was (and I’m pretty sure that if I had known, I wouldn’t have been a fan), but it seems kind of mean to say “no” to something right off the bat like that. Why the negativity, parents? It was a stern little square sign that didn’t even have a little stick figure briefcasey sales dude with a circle and slash. That level of artistic detail might have made the sign more agreeable to a youngster.

I never became more conservative as I got older (my dad always said this would happen), but I did eventually acquire my parents’ distaste for soliciting. I do not like soliciting. I do not like it here or there. I would not like it anywhere. I do not like it in a house. I do not like it with a mouse. I do not like it, Sam-I-Am.

At least in a house, though, you can avoid a solicitor by declining to answer the door. I’m a big fan of this type of confrontation avoidance. In person out in public, it’s not so easy.

One thing in life that gets on my last nerve is the 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver. The Sixteenth Street Mall in downtown Denver is teeming with aggressive people who want to talk to you only as a means of furthering their own purposes. Solicitors (broadly defined)! Usually this involves people asking you for money or, worse, Greenpeace employees who want to talk to you for hours and get you to do something to comply with their agenda.1 I do not like it when people speak to me only as a means of furthering their own purposes. In fact, it’s one of the minor annoyances of life that I hate the most.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not an asocial jerkwad or anything (most of the time). I don’t mind if you talk to me to be nice or social. I mean, I smiled for a good 5 minutes after a woman complimented my German grandma bunion shoes2 this morning. I like that! And I like pleasant social interactions, too, even if you’re not complimenting me! It’s cool if you talk to me about something at the gym or on the street or at the DMV or in line at the beer store or wherever, as long as you’re being nice and aren’t doing it just because you want something.

Today there was a very underweight older woman wearing a tiny shirt held together by a string (it wasn’t ripped — this was the design of the shirt). First she left me alone and tried to approach a dude wearing a tie. When he didn’t stop, it was my turn — something about a dude taking her money and a boarding house. I’m always very polite, “Sorry, I have no cash at all. I’m really sorry.”

And it’s true. I have no cash at all. I hardly ever have cash, partly for this very reason but also because what the hell am I going to do with cash anyway. Cash is so old school. And I am really sorry.

And you know, I was just going about my business here after working out, but thanks for reminding me of the fact that it’s not just cash I don’t have — it’s money in general. Then I start thinking that you probably have no money but I actually have negative money and I’ll be paying off these goddamn law school loans forever and my husband and I are gainfully employed with full-time jobs but still can’t manage to maintain our modest lifestyle in a tiny house in the ‘hood and maybe buy some new clothes once in a while and send our kid to daycare without going into the hole and and and waaaaaah woe is me.

Oh, man. That’s awful. I’m the eggshell head change-requestee — you take the person you’re hitting up for cash on the street as you find her. And apparently you don’t want to find me. Not that I’ll tell you any of this woe-is-me shit. I’ll just silently resent you like the fine, upstanding former Midwesterner of Northern European descent I am.

I mean, look. I don’t want to be a (total) asshole. I get it. There are people who are way worse off than I am and I feel bad about that. Despite the fact that I’m broke, I recognize that I occupy a relatively privileged place in our society. I wish there was something I could do about all this shit but realistically, there isn’t. I don’t have the means in any respect — money, time, connections, anything. So that sucks.

And I kind of wish I could wear a no-soliciting hat or something, so people would know that I really don’t like soliciting.
1. The Greenpeace people lurk outside the entrance to the empty shell of a mall where my gym (for the next month — I did quit) is located. They wear green vests and are super-aggressive about talking to you. Here’s the thing, though. Or maybe here are the things, plural, because my problems with the Greenpeace people are, well, many-fold. First of all, every time I’ve seen someone actually get sucked in to their web of being talked to, he or she is stuck there for, like, a long-ass time. At least 10 minutes or more. I don’t want to spend that much time being talked at by someone who is speaking to me only as a means of . . . yeah, you know. I’m in a hurry to get in and out of the gym and get home to my peeps, and my parking meter is going to expire, so no time, thanks. Then, they’re going to want you to do something. I’m not sure what because I’ve never stopped to listen to this shit for the required amount of time. They have to want either money or action. They will get neither from me. First of all, I have no money. Second, I’m not going to take any action at their request. I’m not going to do any volunteer work for you because I already do volunteer work I chose myself without being accosted on the street. I’m not going to sign up for anything so you can send me spam emails. I’m not going to sign any sort of petition presented to me by anyone on the street ever under any circumstances (marijuana legalization is an exception, because the language of that would be very straightforward and you have to have exceptions). People petition for crazy shit and it gets on the ballot because people on the street think it sounds okay and sign it and it ends up being a steaming pile of horseshit that should never pass in a million years but now we have to worry about it because it’s on the goddamn ballot. I mean, I’m sure my expensive-ass lawyer mind could figure out what you’re asking me to sign, but I don’t want to be put on the spot like that. If I’m going to sign something, it’ll be because I want to and I’ve independently researched the issue. Finally, I’m not going to give you money or do what you’re requesting because doing so would be encouraging you to stand on the street and annoy people. I don’t want that!
2. I don’t have bunions. I just accessorize as if I do.

Written by Tracy

March 28th, 2012 at 9:53 pm

Posted in and life,Bitching,Denver

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Fucking Fucking Fuck

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You guys. I need to vent.

Usually, I’m pretty together. I think. I don’t know. Maybe I’m a total trainwreck and I don’t even know it, but I think I handle my shit most of the time. Usually, I love my life and if I don’t for a minute, I’m not really going to complain about it because it’s the life I’ve made for myself and it’s kind of weaksauce to bitch about whatever situations I’ve gotten myself into. But right now this very second, I feel like I’m about to lose it.

Usually this shit happens at certain times during the monthly cycle — you know, there are those days where you might feel completely shitty or bitchy or you have a short fuse or whatever. But for like the last week, I’ve been feeling like that and can’t blame hormones so I don’t know what it is. I’m so tired. Exhausted. Burned out. Kind of sad. Kind of mad. On edge.

I was all, hm, maybe my thyroid up and quit. I don’t know. But then I mentioned it to Ben and he’s feeling pretty much the same way. That’s always comforting. The same thing used to happen in college with my BFF — I’d be feeling X, whatever X was, and I’d tell her about it and she’d be all, OMG that’s happening to me too, or vice versa. And then Ben was all, well yeah, of course you’re exhausted, you don’t really sleep and yeah, that’s true. I’m probably just really fucking tired.

Then today was all shit, fan. There’s this ongoing thing I’m pissed off about, which involves a sippy cup and the destruction of pixels on our tv (and goddamn if telling you about property destruction via sippy cup doesn’t make me think I should just give up, get a sassy mom haircut, move to the suburbs, and start shooting heroin before mommy & me yoga). Then our dishwasher? It has this janky-ass fiberoptic touchpad and Soren exerted a great deal of effort trying to remove it from the dishwasher. So eventually, most of the lights stopped working, which was okay because the dishwasher still functioned. But then today, while I’m all bad-edgy and pissed off, I realized, as I was starting the dishwasher, that I had no idea what cycle it was set on. It could’ve been “rinse only” for all I knew. Rinse only is an outrage. I hit “cycle select” however many times and then start and hoped the dishes wouldn’t be gross when they came out.

I complained about this to Ben and then he came home and tried to fix the touchpad but, bless his heart, he just broke the fuck out of that shit. And it turns out you can’t buy just the touchpad. You have to buy the whole control panel, which is like $125 or more, which is a stupid amount of money to spend to fix the janky-ass dishwasher that is making us have this stupid conversation in the first place. So then I guess we’re supposed to become the kind of hippies who wash all our dishes by hand (fuck that shit) or buy a new dishwasher. Do you ever wish you were like the people from Young House Love, who spend hours and days looking for new appliances on Craigslist and at appliance outlets and eventually score an entire new kitchen on sale for 98% off the original price? I totally wish we were like that, but replacing a dishwasher isn’t our full-time job and I just want it to be done, but at the same time, I don’t want to pay full price for that shit because I’m not a chump.

So I’m in a bad mood and our shit is broken and then it was all gloomy today and now it’s fucking snowing and by the way I have to inspect 33 yards for tree placement in the next 2 weeks (I totally love doing this and am not complaining about it but give me some decent freaking weather, please). The highlight of my day was going to the gym to lift weights, and honestly even that was a little annoying because the weight room was super crowded and there was this thing where some dude stood right in front of the bench I was using such that if I went back to what I was doing my face would’ve been like 2 inches from his ass and what is that about. Lifting weights is my favorite workout of all time. Almost without fail, it makes me feel awesome. But then I go home and, today at least, don’t really feel awesome any more.

In an attempt to get myself out of this funk, this evening, I got out my essential oils because I’m a goddamn hippie and I lit some candles and took a fucking bubble bath because that should be relaxing and at the very least take the edge off. I mean hey, let’s take a bath instead of a shower! It’ll be nice. So I get in there and I’m not really going to blog about taking a bath but I shaved, because that’s what I do when I shower (and I’m the person who would shave her legs every day even if I lived in a cabin in Alaska without human contact all winter and oh hey that sounds kind of nice) and then I sat there and thought, well, lavender smells nice but is this it? And then I listened to loud snippets, over and over, of the song Ben is remixing. And then I got out of the tub and stepped on the sopping wet bathmat (Soren thinks dumping water out of the tub is the most awesome thing in the world). And then I shook my tiny fist and uttered a surly “fuck you” to the universe.

Right now, I’d really like a break. Remember how I told you I’ve never had a night away from Soren? Look, I love that guy but I wouldn’t mind, like, 24 hours away from him. I was telling Ben how it would be so nice to have one night away from Soren and our 900 animals. We could go stay at a little hotel, not even that far away, and maybe even be all fancy and drink some wine, and then go out for breakfast the next day and hang out or whatever, and then come home all refreshed and shit. And of course our lifestyle doesn’t allow for that sort of thing, which is fine. We’re the ones who chose time over money and decided to have 67 dogs and 83 cats and who moved 1000 miles away from our families and then had a kid and blah blah blah I know. I know. I choose my choice and all that shit, but goddamn I need a fucking break. And some sleep.

The good news is I get to go into the office tomorrow. Going into the office is like a fucking vacation.

Written by Tracy

March 1st, 2012 at 11:08 pm

Posted in and life,Bitching

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PMS & Antlers

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I hate to write about stuff that’s totally a downer or getting into girly-TMI territory (sorry, dudes), but once every three months or so, I get, like, the worst PMS ever. I’ll first notice it during that hectic part of the evening after I get home from the gym and Ben is making dinner and Soren is experiencing toddler witching hour and there are toys all over the place and the animals are all OMG you guys you guys you guys feed us now the end is near and I’m trying to at least take off my shoes and ignore the fact that I won’t be able to shower for a while (“not showering for days” is the biggest lie anybody will ever tell you about life with a child, but sometimes I at least don’t get to shower at the exact minute at which I’d like) and I just, like, kind of snap. I might say something even bitchier than the things I say about Tim Tebow or Philip Rivers on Twitter after I’ve been drinking, or I might feel a sudden burst of rage that seems to come from nowhere but then I realize oh yeah, PMS.

My mental train leaves the sudden-burst-of-rage station and spends the next few days chugging through regions that include “not quite totally depressed,” “hopeless,” “angry,” “torrential verbal outbursts,” “outright crazy,” “fat and bloated,” “couches and sweatpants only,” and “zitty.” I recognize when I’m in it, which is good, but that does little to make it suck any less.

The good news is I know it’s not all that bad because I’m able to function and I tend to, inexplicably, have really good workouts. And I know it’s only temporary.



The bad news is nothing really helps and you just have to wait it out. Well, honestly, weed helps, but it’s not something we have around. (I’ve seriously considered looking into getting medical marijuana just for this intermittent PMS.) In theory, keeping busy helps, but it’s hard to keep busy when your brain knows it needs to be busy but your body is just this doughy lump on the couch. In a feeble attempt to cheer myself up this weekend, I consumed large quantities of cheese bread dipped in ranch dressing and tried to implement an antler-wearing regime with respect to at least one of our small animals. This mostly failed. I don’t know why it’s so hard for these guys to understand that I really enjoy animals with antlers. I mean, just humor me for a few minutes, dudes.

We’re getting there.


sweatpants and antlers: good for what ails you

Written by Tracy

November 28th, 2011 at 10:18 am

Let’s talk about the weather.

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Here is every annoying thing anybody has ever said about the weather. I hope that, by consolidating everything here, we can avoid hearing anybody say any of this ever again.

  • Hey, it’s snowing.
  • Hey, it’s still snowing!
  • I guess there’s a winter storm coming. I’m going to go buy some bread.
  • People already bought all the bread.
  • It’s cold out!
  • I just checked in at a place where it’s really cold.
  • We are snowed in.
  • We are still snowed in.
  • We are still snowed in!
  • The snow is 27 feet deep.
  • I’m digging out my car.
  • I’m still digging out my car.
  • I’m scraping ice off my car.
  • I’m starting my car (I hope)!
  • I can’t get my car out of the driveway.
  • I’m driving my car down a hill that is covered in snow and ice.
  • I’m stuck in a snowdrift.
  • It’s the notorious snowpocalypse Mr. Snow Miser u can’t touch this shoveltime ice ice baby!
  • Here is a picture of my house covered in 1 inch of snow.
  • Here is a picture of my house covered in 2 inches of snow.
  • Here is a picture of my house covered in 3 inches of snow.
  • I just burned 87,000 calories shoveling snow.
  • Oh my aching back! I just shoveled snow!
  • I just shoveled for an hour.
  • I just shoveled for two hours.
  • I can shovel that driveway in one hour.
  • I can shovel that driveway in 45 minutes.
  • Shovel that driveway!
  • I’m super stoked that I had “shovel a driveway” on my “30 Before 30″ list!
  • I’m going outside.
  • After I get outside, I will probably have to do some shoveling.
  • After I get outside and do some shoveling, I will come back inside and tell the internet about my shoveling-related aches and pains.
  • I shoveled a narrow tunnel that will allow me to leave my house and then come back to tell the internet what I good job I did shoveling a narrow tunnel that will allow me to leave my house for a minute.
  • Shoveling snow is a great workout!
  • I just shoveled not only my driveway but every driveway within a three-mile radius.
  • We got mail!
  • The snow has affected my life negatively in the following ways: [tearfully reads list handwritten on crumpled notebook paper]
  • I plan to leave for work 6 hours early tomorrow.
  • I’m not going to work tomorrow.
  • I’m going to live in my office so I don’t have to leave for work 6 hours early tomorrow or worry about missing work, which is important because my work is so groundbreaking a missed day would result in chaos and tragedy. Please bring canned goods.
  • I think summer’s finally over!
  • All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
  • I am self-satisfied about the weather where I am, because it is not cold.
  • Ahahaha I live in a place that’s warm enough for flip flops all year, suckas, and if I do enough gloating about it, you are free to ignore the 9,000 times I bitch about how fucking unbearably hot it is here all summer!
  • It’s 70 degrees here. This is newsworthy because I control the weather.

For the record, I have seen some hilarious weather-related updates. My favorite involved a news chopper, a green jacket, a shovel, an alley, and a bottle of vodka. The @mayoremanuel tweets were, as always, brilliant:

  • Carl the Intern built an igloo, and we’re all just laying around in here, fucking whiskied and exhausted. Stay fucking warm.
  • Carl the Intern is designing a tunnel to get us the fuck out. “The key is that it doesn’t collapse in on itself while we’re inside.”
  • Carl the Intern has emptied all the pork n beans onto the crawlspace floor and is welding the cans together into a fucking escape elevator.
  • When he presented the plans to me and Axelrod, he said, “It’s pretty simple, really: We’re going to Chilean Miner this shit.”
  • I get the pork n beans elevator, but I’m still a little unclear on how we’re actually digging the motherfucking escape tunnel.
  • Axelrod just called in from a Teamster truck. “We’re going to go surf a plow on the lake. You in?” Fuck yes I’m in.
  • The plan: We’re going to hit velocity on the Michigan Ave curve, launch into the water, and ride a motherfucking 18′ wave to victory.

That’s how it’s done.

Written by Tracy

February 3rd, 2011 at 12:14 pm

I have no ass.

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Song: I’m Sorry That I Got Fat by Wesley Willis
You always hear about how your body changes after you have a baby. It’s true. It just might not happen the way you expect.

What I’m about to discuss is kind of one of those non-problem problems. Non-problem problems include things like the following (please forgive me for plagiarizing myself a few times here):

  • I once got a B+ in law school, but that’s totally okay because I got straight As every other semester!
  • My trust fund check arrived a day late.
  • I have so many awesome friends I simply cannot keep up with everyone!
  • Most men I encounter want to have sex with me.
  • I just can’t get along with other women because they are intimidated by my hotness.
  • People always buy me free drinks because I’m so hot, but then I drink too much and feel hungover the next morning.
  • I simply cannot wear all five engagement rings at the same time. Someone is going to be hurt every day.
  • I just don’t know whether to spend the summer in France or on a whirlwind tour of somewhat obscure Asian countries.
  • I’m on a budget, so I’ll have to buy the small Louis Vuitton bag and only half of my summer wardrobe will come from Anthropologie.
  • I worry that it’s tacky to accept all the presents I’m about to receive.
  • I cannot possibly respond to the thousands of emails I receive from my adoring fans who inundate me with questions, requests, and statements of true and undying love every day.

The very non-problemy part of my problem is the fact that I weigh 17 pounds less than I did when I got pregnant. That means I’m only three pounds away from my yay-woohoo-happy weight. This is awesome and a glowing testament to the power of running more and eating less.

It gets a little dicey when you account for the post-pregnancy body weirdness. The first problem is that I’m even more top-heavy than I used to be. And listen, I know “my boobs are so big” normally would qualify as a non-problem problem, but when you’re getting into triple-letter bra sizes, it’s not really a good thing unless you’re, like, Dolly Parton, and even then it’s questionable but at least you’re making a decent living.

If you have a decrease in weight and an increase in top-heaviness, it follows that you also have a decrease in, well, bottom-heaviness. Let’s be clear. I seriously have no ass whatsoever. I’ve never had hips or an ass, but now I have even less of an ass than I had before getting pregnant.

For practical purposes, this means I’ve been having a very hard time with pants. First, it was just that I lost weight so my pants were too big (total non-problem problem). So I bought a few new pairs of pants and had Ben dig around the attic to find my old boxes of “small pants,” which, for the record, I didn’t think I’d ever need again, oh happy surprise.

I’ve even been careful to incorporate into my wardrobe pants that are no-ass friendly. These include traditionally junior-oriented pants from places like American Eagle, Alloy (Does that still exist?), and Abercrombie (I know!) (as opposed to women-oriented pants from places like Ann Taylor, which make me look like a misguided MC Hammer wannabe). Old Navy used to work very well but now their pants seem to stretch and are an almost-guaranteed way for me to end up on America’s Funniest Home Videos (Does that still exist? I hope not.) when my pants fall down while I’m walking down the street with a cat on a scooter and 57 min pins, in totally a non-calculated way that just happened to be caught on tape.

The thing is that now, even traditionally junior-oriented pants designed for teenage girls are way too baggy in the ass and don’t stay up. I’m forever pulling up my pants, and it has to look ridiculous. Just the other day when I was dropping Soren off at school, I got out of the car, hiked my jacket up to my armpits, and gave my pants a good tug (you have to really get them up there when you’re about to carry a toddler across the parking lot and through the building), before realizing that a mom and kid were sitting in the SUV parked next to me and now they probably think I’m really, really creepy, because who does that.

Ben refers to the flat butt phenomenon as “Littleton ass,” Littleton being a suburb of Denver. So what he’s saying here is that I have mom butt. If you observe mom butt in its natural environment, you’ll notice that high-waisted pants make it look even more exceptionally flat.

This means that, unless I want to accentuate my flat-assedness, I can’t wear high-waisted pants. However, low-waisted pants fall off of me. I think the problem might be too much for a belt to help, because to hold my pants up, a belt would have to be tight enough to give me a nice muffin top, which isn’t an appealing option, either.

I fear that the only answer is for me to wear dresses or skirts all the time. Or suspenders.

Written by Tracy

January 26th, 2011 at 12:26 pm

Sun Salutations

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Yoga teaches us to cure what need not be endured and endure what cannot be cured. –B.K.S. Iyengar

The Criminal Minds team is called to Denver, where three women have been killed in the past month. Members of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) arrive at the crime scene of the latest victim to find the body of a reasonably fit blond woman in her mid-30s, still wearing workout clothes and one expensive running shoe, on her living room floor. The body is wrapped in a yoga mat.

This is a case for the BAU because it appears the same unknown subject (unsub) killed all three women. All victims were found wearing workout clothes and one expensive athletic shoe and were wrapped in yoga mats.

The first victim was found in the living room of her home and the second was found in her kitchen. All victims were home alone when the unsub attacked. The crime scenes were tidy, the yoga mats were neatly wrapped and fastened around each body, and no weapons were found. The unsub takes a shoe from each victim as a souvenir. He clearly is organized. He is of average intelligence and is considered attractive and outgoing by the community, meaning that he can fit in to any neighborhood and move freely without suspicion. Although he craves human contact, he feels superior to others and knows that if they would only submit to his control and live their lives the way he dictates, they would be much happier, healthier, and fulfilled.

Aside from being reasonably fit blond women dressed in workout clothes, the victims had nothing in common. Even Penelope Garcia, with her quirky fashion, fuzzy pen, awesome glasses, and mad-crazy computer skills, can’t find a connection.

While the team delivers the profile to the local authorities, another body is found, just one day after the last murder. He’s escalating.

Garcia determines that, although the four victims didn’t know each other or frequent any of the same establishments, they all were regular gym-goers. She cross-checks lists of employees of all gyms in the downtown Denver area, focusing on front desk staff and cleaning crews. Nothing.

While going through the computer of the first victim, Garcia finds that she had a blog wherein she posted about a creepy personal trainer who bothered her. Subsequent posts revealed that, after quitting one gym because of the creepy personal trainer, the first victim went to a second gym, which she later quit because the creepy personal trainer started working there. Later, the creepy personal trainer taught a class at her office, then at her third gym. The posts don’t reveal the name of the creepy personal trainer, but Garcia knows he is the unsub. She uses her mad-crazy computer skills to piece together which gyms the first victim frequented, and then found the one personal trainer/fitness instructor who taught classes at all those gyms within the past several months. Why nobody from any of these gyms questioned why the creepy personal trainer had to work at every gym in downtown Denver was a mystery even the BAU wouldn’t be able to solve.

Garcia finds that the unsub is due to be teaching a yoga class at an upscale downtown gym in an hour. The team rushes to the location and finds him in the parking garage with a blond, ponytailed woman at knifepoint.

“I’ll – I’ll do yoga!” she says.

“Yoga is the answer!” the unsub yells. “You cannot do yoga.  Yoga is your natural state.  What you can do are yoga exercises, which may reveal to you where you are resisting your natural state. Why are you trying to deny your natural state?”

The woman screams. “I’ll do yoga!”

Derek Morgan steps in and talks to the unsub. “Yoga is important for living a well-adjusted life. When I was a child, I always wanted to do yoga but it was prohibited by my domineering father who believed the only worthwhile form of exercise was running 12 miles first thing in the morning.”

“Oh my gosh,” the unsub says, his hold on the knife weakening. “That is so terrible for you. I can sense that your flow is constricted.”

“Yes, my flow, it is constricted,” Derek Morgan says, a small tear forming in the corner of his left eye, reflecting the bright Colorado sun. “It took me a long time to recognize the importance of yoga for a balanced and healthful life.”

“Yes! Balanced and healthful! Yoga is so important!” The unsub drops the knife and lunges to get into a parparivrtta parsvakonasana pose. (I don’t know if that’s how you say it. As you might have gathered, I don’t do yoga.) Before he can extend his arm, Derek Morgan handcuffs him as the rescued victim cries and says, breathless, “He wanted me to do personal training sessions with him and go to his yoga class but I didn’t want to! He wouldn’t leave me alone after that and followed me out here, going on and on about how it would be beneficial to me. He was going to make me do yoga and then kill me!”

On the plane on the way home, the new random blond woman who apparently has become part of the BAU gazes wistfully out the window.

“What’s wrong?” Aaron Hotchner asks.

“I don’t particularly care for yoga, either, and sometimes there’s a personal trainer at my gym who talks to me when I don’t want to be bothered. Next time, I’m going to punch him in the face.”

Hotchner smiles a half-smile, as he is wont to do in an effort to appear benevolent, as well as exacting. “A punch to the face is the best way to deal with creepy personal trainers.”

Written by Tracy

December 29th, 2010 at 11:07 pm