Please. Just go.
I’d say you know who you are, but obviously you don’t, since you didn’t when we crossed paths this morning. You’re the one with the practical ponytail of charcoal-greying hair and the cute little workout Capris who was sitting across two middle sections of an eight-section mat next to the dumbbell racks. You had your dumbphone out. The two sections of the mat nearer to the wall would have accommodated you, but they were occupied by your handbag.
You fiddled with that phone through my first couple of chest and back sets, and then took a call. There is a sign up front asking people to refrain from phone calls in the equipment area, but you doubtless knew that request was meant for someone else. I finished my last set of dumbbell rows, after which I usually take a stability ball over to the mat and knock out some two-handed dumbbell pullovers and reverse flyes. You were still yackety-yacking. I parked the ball on the sections of mat that were left, so that my feet stuck out onto the workout floor when I positioned myself in a way that avoided dropping the dumbbell right on your little ponytailed head. I don’t know why. I guess you finally saw me in the mirror; that was when you turned your head and said “Am I in your way?”
I mildly suggested we could distribute ourselves across the mat a little more evenly. You scooched over a whole six inches and began to do some stretches. Well at long last and least you were actually doing something.
As I wrapped up you waved to a passing friend and began telling her all about what was so goddam interesting on the phone. It had something to do with your son watching a dog. Stop the presses.
One of these days, Alice. Pow. Straight to the Moon.