Why Can’t We Be Friends?

The Hussy deals with whould-be friends.

Renee Robbins. Writes.

There is a very nice lady in my Monday morning Barre class. She seems to have taken a liking to me, as she introduced herself two weeks ago as I hung up my mat. “I’m Joyce,” she said, and offered her hand. “Nice to meet you!” I said, and aggressively pressed the bottle of mat-cleaner spray into it.

Undeterred, last week she brought me an exercise ball just to be helpful, as I was late and rushing to set up; today, she had a station laid out right beside her, in the corner of the back row, where I like to be. She is already allowing for my natural tendency to come flying in at the last minute, pissed off because someone who had the skills to be on time invaded my spot. So, an enabler, bound to be disappointed by the depth and scope of my personal shortcomings. Like always.

She is older. Than me. Probably…

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