Detective Milledge and the case of the mysterious woo

I do not like wooers. They live and work among us, hiding their secret passion for yelling out “WOOOOOOOOOO” at ear-splitting decibels and inappropriate times. They woo during sporting events, at concerts and any other time when extreme levels of excitement need to be expressed. It is most apparent after said wooer has consumed copious amounts of alcohol, and it is amplified around other wooers.They pretend they cannot hold in their woos, but I know better.

The woo is most commonly known as the mating call of drunk girls, crossing the street from bar to bar on Fridays and Saturdays (and sometimes Mondays, depending on the time of year).

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Courtesy of latestobession.wordpress.com

It is rare to find a woo in the wild and born of natural, non-alcoholic circumstances.

And so began the case of the mysterious woo.

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Courtesy of quickmeme.com

No one speaks in Pure Barre class. It’s one of those social norms that never needs to be addressed because rational people instinctively know. Occasionally, someone will let out a grunt or a moan. Even a toot is acceptable every now and then. It’s a tough workout; these things happen.

But there has never before been a woo.

I thought I’d imagined it, that first woo. It was faint, half-hearted. But then I heard another, then another, then three more during the first exercise. Where were they coming from?

I looked around, surveying my surroundings for the most probable wooer. I decided that it was the college-aged girl in a baggy sorority t-shirt covered in a jumble of Greek letters. She was the prime suspect.

But I heard another. The sorority girl’s mouth never moved. My prime suspect had an alibi.

I finally caught her, the mysterious wooer. I would have never suspected her if I had not seen the woo escape her lips with my own eyes.

The case was cracked.

She was tall and lean, with toned arms and the hips of a 12-year-old boy. She looked the part of a yogi, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. Yogis do not woo.

Still, she persisted, wooing a total of 37 times during that 55-minute class. My eyes were tired by the end of it all; I had been giving her the stink-eye for nearly an hour.

I’ll concede that there is a time and a place for wooing. Perhaps at a dance competition, a bachelorette party, or a Jersey Shore nightclub. An early morning ballet-inspired fitness class is not one of them.

So wooers beware. You can disguise yourself in Lulu Lemon and carry around a sports bottle. But we know. We always know. Because you can’t keep those woos in forever.

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