a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day 17

While most of the world lined up for Sex and the City Part Two* and barbecues last night, I opted for what I thought I was going to be a decidedly more masochistic and less patriotic evening--a spinning class in a converted warehouse off Imokolee.

Uh, I thought wrong.

As it turns out every drag queen east of Ft. Lauderdale and north of Havana apparently opts for this particular spinning class in this particular converted warehouse off Imokolee every Friday night as well.

Now, some may argue that spinning is spinning. Oh but au contraire mon frere. True, all spinning classes hurt, but this is where the similarities between last night's class and all of the others I have ever taken end. Abruptly.

Exhibit One
When a spin instructor in other cities yells on a Friday night "Who has to work this weekend?" it is not surprising that very few people raise their hands. However, when a spin instructor in Naples asks a room full of drag queens "Who has to work on Monday?" oddly still no one raises his hand. Ditto for Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and next Friday. Of course, I'm not fully convinced that this phenomenon is specific to drag queens in Naples, as it has been one of my curious observations that really no one in Naples seems to work.**

Exhibit Two
In other cities it would be unlikely for 29 out of the 30 participants to be related. However, last night I was the odd woman out as David, Samuel, Michael, Richard (there's always a Richard, isn't there?), Ferdinand, Enrique, David again, Christopher, Daniel et al share not a genetic lineage so to speak, but rather a lineage that can be traced back to Madonna or Her Highness, as they call her. Two of them grew up across the street from her in Michigan, one of them keeps an apartment next door to her in London, and the rest of them--so they told me--channel her on the dance floor or in the shower on a regular basis.

Exhibit Three
In other cities in which I have resided (seven and counting...),spinning is defined as cycling very, very fast on a bicycle that is--let's be honest--going nowhere. However, in Ricki's class, the definition of spinning is apparently open to interpretation--though it may be loosely translated to mean dancing or "freaking it out" while on bicycle that is--let's be honest--still going nowhere

Exhibit Four
The mirrors, I have found, in most spinning rooms are there for instructive purposes, that is, they are there to verify proper spinning posture and form. There remains no doubt in my mind that the the mirrors in last night's spinning room are also there for instructive purposes, that is, to verify each individual's hotness.

Exhibit Five
Spinning classes elsewhere provide an education on, well, spinning. However, Ricki's spinning class provides an education on Lady Gaga. I now know more about Lady Gaga than she does.

Think what you may--judge me if you like-- but I'm fairly certain that I have never had so much fun in my life.

*I should note that after class last night I headed to Sanibel Island to watch the sunset. In Naples, sunsets are events--the hottest tickets in town. And after witnessing the most gorgeous one I have ever seen, I can say unequivocally
that Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte had nothing on me last night.

**I'm currently in very good company.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day sixteen

So last night I decided to write on the back porch because, well...on a good night, this is what writers do.

I was lost (as is usually the very unfortunate case)somewhere in the quagmire of Chapter 2 when I heard a branch break in the miniature everglade that is my back yard. Heh, a bird, I thought. It's just a bird. It's just a very fat bird. A very fat bird who landed on a very thin branch. I put my head down again, feeling rather proud for ignoring the distraction that would so obviously entice lesser writers (such as myself on any one of the other 364 days of the year) to stop writing in order to investigate.*

And then the rustling started.

Heh, I thought. It's probably a turtle. Yes, it's probably just a turtle. Or maybe a large frog. But then I wondered, do turtles rustle? Do turtles or frogs--even large ones--really rustle in the proper sense of the word? I put pen to paper again, but this time admittedly I was pondering the anatomy of frogs and turtles in attempt to determine whether rustling could be considered one of their feasible modi operandi.

And then...and then--I kid you not--the rustling turned into the sound of very distinct foot falls. Now, frogs have legs--we all know this--and presumably they have feet. But frogs jump. They do not walk. Hence "foot falls" can safely be eliminated. And turtles have feet of some sort, too--no one would deny this. But turtles' normal pace, it was clear to me in this moment, would also in fact impede them from making the distinct sound of foot falls.

As only a former Indian Princess and New Yorker** could do, I took a quick inventory of the remaining possibilities and none boded well: alligator, crocodile, panther, or serial killer.

I sat there frozen trying to match the sound of the very distinct foot falls with the possible predator for a good 10 minutes and then--I'm not proud to say--realized I'm her. I'm the girl who sits frozen on the back porch for a good 10 minutes playing Name That Predator while that predator lurks nearby waiting not to welcome me to the neighborhood with some lovely gift (say, perhaps a pie or a box of Girl Scout Cookies) but to POUNCE AND SHRED ME TO PIECES.

So, yeah...one minute I'm Earnest Hemingway and the next I'm the get-up-and-run!-run!-you-dumb-dumb-girl! in scary movies who sits frozen when she should be hightailing it out of there. Had I been shredded to pieces I would have fully deserved it.***

*investigation is only one of a thousand perfectly legitimate alternatives writers turn toward to in order to avoid writing. Others to which I can personally attest include day-tripping to discounted vitamin outlets, french braiding my shoelaces, and googling my middle-school boyfriends.

**Both Indian Princesses (that's Princess Raindrop to whomever is asking and yes, we were waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay cooler than the Brownies (minus the cookie thing)) and New Yorkers are very skilled in, as Chief Thundercloud and Rudy Giuliani used to like to say, "Situational Awareness."

"Situational Awareness" exponentially reduces your chances of being eaten by a black bear should one sneak up on you while you are sleeping in a tent in one of your fellow Indian Princesses' backyards. It also exponentially reduces your chances in NYC of being kidnapped, robbed, or mowed down by a kidnapper, robber or tipsy hipster on a retro-cool Huffy--respectively.

***It is true that I survived last night's potential attack, but let me assure you that contrary to the popular notion that Naples is a tame, laid back place, other southwestern Florida perils exist.

The ones to which I can also personally attest include covert sprinkler systems with haphazard "OH LOOK I'M NAILING YOU NOW, LADY, REGARDLESS OF THE HOUR YOU JUST SPENT GETTING READY FOR YOUR DINNER DATE WHICH HAHHAHAHHAHHAHA YOU WILL NOW BE LATE FOR" timing, traffic cops with such a fierce propensity for issuing a ticket for something! anything! they make Cleveland feel like the autobahn, and large beetles that apparently have a thing for tallish blonds with long arms.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day fourteen?

MondayisTuesdayisWednesdayisThursdayisFridayisSaturdayisSunday and I'm telling time not by a watch or a clock, but by how many pages I have left to read in as many back issues of Vanity Fair I can find in deserted poolside cabanas (you'd be surprised).