I made a really important decision this afternoon while at the gym. (Yeah, that's right, this afternoon. I didn't go pre-dawn, the way I ordinarily do. But I went, OK? I went, and I look fabulous, and feel even better, so don't give me any lip. Or tongue. Please.)
Anyway ... I made a decision while forced to witness, thanks to my ridiculously sharp peripheral vision and hearing, the fortyish, blondish, plaid-shorts-and-big-T-shirt-wearing, no-range-of-motion-at-all-and-legs-barely-moving, Stairmaster-leaning-to-the-point-of-draping, yes-my-outfit-is-from-Land's-End LOSER two machines to my left take call after call and make call after call on the cell phone that she kept on her magazine tray (yes, she was reading too, because such an important go-getter certainly must multi-task!!!).
Instantly, of course, I felt nothing but disdain (for her outfit) and disgust (for her "workout") and ... rage (for everything else) ... and I really wanted to, well, you know, say something, as I have done in the past with other people. Because, you see, I'm a bit militant about propriety in certain situations. I know that comes as a complete surprise. I dunno. I just have this thing about people not heeding the signs that say not to use cell phones on the gym floor. If you can read, you can heed. (I just made that up. Isn't it pretty? Don't steal it.)
The decision was this: I am not going to confront people who may be important, because you never know who that person may be. Who knows. This woman, so obnoxious and clearly in such high demand, could be a casting agent, or a publisher, or a really inexpensive housekeeper. So to play it safe, I made a pact with myself not to display my anger unless and until I find out that the object of my rage is just some regular ol' useless schlub with nothing to offer me.
Because I can just see it happening, like in a bad sitcom (take your pick): I go into an office with something to offer. I'm a little nervous. (OK, more than a little.) I'm waiting (and have been for three hours) to meet the person who is going to decide the fate of my project. The receptionist finally tells me to go on in. The camera (remember, this is a sitcom) pans up from the floor and eventually settles on the honcho's face. She is, of course, the very same LOSER I'd unleashed 10,000 gallons of my choicest rage on the day before. She recognizes me immediately. Arches her eyebrow. Doesn't extend her hand. And then the camera cuts to me ... gasping and crying and running out of the room. And tripping on something. And dying.
So I said nothing.
fresh-baked at 03:02 PM
P.S. The surgeons at Mt. Sinai tell me they can reattach my tongue. Hooray!