As I've noted, Tuesdays are the day when my wonderful blogging friends use this space to let loose. There are no rules, not even that one rule about not talking about Fight Club.
Do you know Jo and the Novelist? Why not? She makes everything better. And makes the world go round. And is so delightfully English. And wants to come with me to Target.
She writes about writing, and about explaining your book to people who are so polite as to ask. She also discusses that NEED TO SMASH and the evils of TV and also has a whole section on her blog devoted to the Best of the Best Comments [which includes, ahem, me]. She makes me so happy all the live long day.
You also need to follow her on Twitter. Because she's awesome.
But first, read this:
Firstly, I would like to thank Suniverse for allowing me to post my generally incoherent rants on her blog. Thanks, Suniverse. Secondly, I would like to thank all the assholes at my gym for providing me with the material for this blog post. Thanks, assholes.
So – there are many annoying people that I encounter regularly at my gym, each with their own self-absorbed, hugely irritating (and frankly bizarre) idiosyncrasies. I have taken the time to address each one of them personally.
Dear Naked Woman on the phone in the Ladies Changing room,
I am writing to you with regards to your nakedness and simultaneous use of your Blackberry mobile phone in the changing rooms at the gym. While you must understand, that I do not consider myself to be a prude – I am struggling to deal with your general nakedness on such a frequent basis.
What bothers me is that during your prolonged nakedness, you endeavour to use your Blackberry for an extensive period of time, whilst resting one foot on the changing room bench for the duration of the conversation.
All I ask is that you put some underwear on. And I request this only because so many times, I have been removing my flip-flops (which I always wear in public showering facilities to prevent from getting a verruca or similar) only to find myself face to face with the dark cavern of your lady parts.
Finally, if you could refrain from calling your friend to update them that you swam a whopping two lengths of the swimming pool until after you got your clothes on then I think that would be better for everyone. But predominantly, it would be better for me.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't complain so officially, but you seem to be at the gym swimming your two lengths of the swimming pool whenever I'm in the gym. I've tried going at different times of the day - sometimes I wait until late in the evening. But you are still there. Naked. And on the phone.
Dear Man who is Clearly Unable to Swim Front Crawl but Insists on Doing it Anyway,
I am writing to you with regards to your distinct inability to swim in a manner that does not resemble a boxer trying to beat the contents of the swimming pool unconscious.
I'm no Olympic swimmer myself - but I'm pretty sure the front crawl is supposed to be a relatively smooth and speedy way to swim. Yet your interpretation seems to predominantly involve punching the water, kicking a lot and generally failing to get to the other side of the pool in a smooth or efficient manner.
As I said, I'm not some sort of professional swimmer (honestly I can only really do the breast-stroke. And the doggy paddle. But I’m not sure that last one counts) and you may have failed to notice me swim past you while we're in the pool together as you flail around with your angry limbs vigorously hitting out at the water all around you, with no semblance of coordination - but your endless splashing is distracting and irritating.
Also, it fills me with an overwhelming desire to drown you.
Please invest in your own private pool. Or swimming lessons. One of those.
Dear Guy with Excessively Small and Tight Swimming Trunks
I am writing with regards to your very small swimming trunks, which appear to be shrinking every time I see you.
Seriously, did you paint them on?
Please purchase some larger trunks.
Dear Man on treadmill who gasps excessively
I am writing to you with regards to your disturbing yelps, gasps, victorious gestures and other weird stuff you do while you're running.
I am still unclear on your reasons for behaving in this largely strange and bizarre manner. Sometimes I panic and think you're yelling at me. Sometimes I worry that you're having a stroke and dying. Most of the time I think you are a mental and worry that at some unsuspecting moment during my work out, you will lunge forth onto my treadmill and attack me.
After some further consideration, I wonder if maybe you are celebrating some sort of achievement. In which case, allow me to point out that it's not a competition, buddy. There is no race to win here - you're on a fucking treadmill. You're a hamster in a wheel.
If you feel that you've done especially well in the gym today, then that's great. Good for you. But please keep it to your GOD DAMN SELF.
If you've achieved your target, that's great. But instead of punching the air like a madman, how's about you congratulate yourself inwardly, silently, and without any physical action?
Alternatively, if you're finding what you're doing too difficult, and that's why you're yelping like a wounded stray dog all the time, then how about LOWERING THE INTENSITY to something you’re more comfortable with and would prevent you from continuously whooping through a shower of your own perspiration.
Dear Girl Who Has Clearly Exercised Way Too Much
Eat a sandwich.