Bummer. No, Really.

I am in my pilates class. In a new spot. Usually, we have designated spots. The spots are not actually designated by the instructor as in assigned seating. Or assigned mat-laying. Our spots are designated because that's what we do. I belong in my spot. I belong in the second row. Between Katie and Pam.

Some new lady in class has messed up the whole system. She took Debbie's spot and Debbie took my spot and I ended up in the back row, sort of, squeezed in too close to the girls that I don't like although I have no good reason for the dislike, except that I covet their implants. A little.

So, I spend the whole class looking at new bums.

I am used to the old bums.

Note: I can go so far as to say that the old bums were my favorites.

I am trying not to look at the bums.

One is a Mom-Bum, for sure. It is flat, wide and saggy in its exercise wear, yes. I worry that my bum looks like that Mom-Bum. I look away. At another bum.

This bum is bubbly and perky and has a perma-wedgie in its exercise gear. I want, badly, to walk over and give the pants a good yank to remove the wedgie, but such behavior in a pilates class is frowned upon.

I am tired of this whole bum-thing. I can't wait to get back to my spot. Where I belong. This situation is really bumming me out.

Heck, yes!