Crying Burns Calories.

In my early twenties, I was subjected to the horrors of working in retail. I worked at Hobby Lobby. For those of you who don't know, this is a craft store frequently visited by old cake decorating sluts, red-hat society skanks, and stoned college kids looking for glitter and model glue.

Many times, people would approach me on the salesfloor. We were required to wear blue work vests with "Hobby Lobby" in bold white lettering, clearly stitched on the front. These people say "Excuse me" as I follow their eyes staring down, directly at my goofy nametag.
"Do you work here?"
Seriously? Really, now? No, I don't work here. I'm wearing this tacky blue Hobby Lobby vest alongside this Hobby Lobby name-tag as a pathetic attempt to meet chicks.
Do out of work referees just hang out inside of Foot Lockers?
There must be some logic behind such confusion.
Circumstances such as these were a dime a dozen.
All in all, I was good at biting my tongue and took pride in my awful job.

One evening, while getting ready to close the store I heard giggling traveling up and down adjacent aisles. The giggling is androgynous in nature.
Not too high, not too deep. But they're definitely stomping around. I was fairly confident that a convoy of linebackers had been somewhere in the general vicinity.

Suddenly, I come across what I believe to be a manatee in low-rise jeans, and the ever so enigmatic Bigfoot devouring a slide of pizza.
I try and sweep past them without being pulled into orbit. "Excuse me", I politely say.

I stand there waiting for them to move, while they look me dead in the eyes.
"Sorry to bother you, just need to sneak through here."

"Are you here to sweep us off our feet?"
I shake my head in rejection, while involuntarily getting an eyeful. The Bigfoot was literally wearing Apple Bottom Jeans. And the boots with the fur. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Her black tank top reminded me of a lunar eclipse, while her arm-fat jiggled all the way down to her felonious muffin-toppage while sweating and struggling to eat a slice of pizza. (Which she spit all over the place during her oh-so smooth pick-up line.)
The manatee wasn't quite as big. However the difference between 350 and 300 can be made up quickly. This one was wearing bleached, low rise jeans, with a white, glittery "Angel" t-shirt. The astounding aspect of this specimen, was the fact that she managed to cameltoe the shit out of a pair of jeans. Not to mention, her fupa was nearly bumping into me, like an umpire and an angry manager disputing a call at first base.

I actually question whether or not my friends had recruited a couple fat chicks to play a joke on me.
While giggling, the manatee repeats her friends question:
"Are you here to sweep us off our feet?"
Without thought, I respond: "No, I'd need a much larger broom"

Suddenly, Bigfoot sprints back to the forest. Leaving behind a trail of tears and sweat. She kicks the broom on her way past me. Between the wind resistance, the momentum of the broomstick, and sheer fright, I drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
"Oh God, don't eat me I'm a real human person!" I silently pray before I hit the unforgiving floor.
Before having the chance to make it back to my feet, I see the manatee standing over me. She's staring at me like she's about to pick me up over her head and spin me around like a pizza.
"You made my friend cry!!!" she screams in a voice not unlike James Earl Jones.
"Crying burns calories", I reply. Yet again, without thought. Go figure.

She shakes her head back and forth. She steps towards me. I flashback to my childhood memories, and relize she's obtained the power of Hulkamania. I'm about to meet my demise.

When the Hulksters coming down and it hurts inside? Screw that, I'm getting the fuck out of here. I stand up, create a strategic obstacle course of debris. She begins to give chase. I'm not prepared for Peter vs. Goliath round 2.

A football helmet, a broomstick, and a garbage can lid wouldn't have been enough.
So, I do the only thing applicable at that specific time. I ran like hell.
I was spinning tackles, stiff-arming customers, jumping over shopping carts. I was not about to lose a fight to something that would only be on Maury next week, explaining how none of the 12 men onstage were the baby's daddy.

Of course, she told the manager. I explained how her fupa had caused all the ruckus, and that I'd saved an insurance claim.
After telling my friends, they'd told me to stand and fight. That I'd been a pussy for running away. I began training the next week. Lifting weights, boxing, running.
Things will be different next time, manatee.
I know your weakness.