Personal Train Me, Please

Dance class stopped plodding along today. Due to various frightening events in my everyday life, I have only made it to one class and I spent most of it getting my head stuck and unstuck and stuck again in my costume dress's arm hole. I think that perhaps I have put the dessert cart in front of the meal horse on this one, because now I am fretting that perhaps my body is not all painted up and readied for public display and liftings without hernias ensuing. Also, my head may have a larger circumference than I bargained for.

I asked my godson, Paul, to get my money back from the place as he is more frightening with his voice than I am with mine. (Although I did once portray a rabid wolf who ate children in a school play, and my performance had everyone depressed and angry for weeks afterwards, but that is neither here nor over there.) It took a lot of shouting, but Paul was able to get the money back in exchange for I never take another class there and that Paul stays 500 meters from their offices at all times. All of today’s shoutings have got me all cramped up in my stomach, wrists, neck, back, feet, abs, spleen, taste buds, cheek puffs, shoulder humps, yarn-bucklers and skull cap, which I am none to the pleased with by or of. Nevertheless, I can't remember a more beautiful day.

I still plan to take some dance classes (somewhere else) at some point, but first I must get into repair. Parts of me that are loosened need to be firmly stowed away and tucked under where they belong. “Keep your arms and all other flapping parts inside the train at all times,” a conductor man would surely say to me.

So I placed a call to a gymnastics man who could train me into tonefulness and versalability. The call was recorded by me to ensure personal homeland security and that quality customer service is being enjoyed by all, not absconded henceto and hitherforth.

Press play on the player below to hear my phone call.