Dear Mr. Drunk Neighbor Dude Whose Name I Have Forgotten Since We Met in the Elevator That One Time,
I really appreciate your willingness to turn down the music you were playing at 3am this morning, despite the fact that you were clearly in the running to win the world record for prolonged deafening bass with no discernible musical value. In the future, however, when I knock on your door in the middle of the night because you have awoken me, please do not proceed to try to kiss me. It only makes me grumpier. And being groggy--from, you know, just having woken up and all--my bob and weave is not what it usually is. Thank you.
Best,
Ms. May
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Of Supreme Court Justices and Tea Bags
As the L.A. Times reported earlier this week, it seems Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas’s wife is a tea-bagger*. This has caused a fairly big stir . . . in the world of legal blogs (and at least a medium-sized stir in less dorky media). Frankly, I don’t see what the big deal is. I thought the whole point of allowing the Justices to have wives was so there would be someone around to throw the tea parties (and, of course, dinner parties and cocktail parties and other kinds of fancy Supreme Court Justice-y parties). Ok, fine, that’s not true. But it is the case that I’m not much bothered by Mrs. Thomas’s political involvement. I’m a big fan of people being able to have separate identities from their partners. What did bother me, though, was this line buried in the middle of the LAT article:
Do I think Justice Thomas would have decided for Gore were it not for his wife’s involvement in the pre-Bush administration? Well, no. This is the man who literally goes years without speaking from the bench, breaking his silence only when a majority of the Court has erred so gravely as to require the President to obey the law or, perhaps even worse, uphold abortion rights.
Still, the standard for recusal is not “Would you have voted that way, anyway?” And for good reason. Actually, lots of good reasons. The reason most often given for imposing upon judges a duty to recuse themselves whenever there is even an appearance of impropriety is that it helps to protect the legitimacy of the Court. But I think there is another reason, one Justice Thomas might want to think about the next time he’s called on to adjudicate a case between his wife’s almost-boss and some other guy who also wants to be president. The appearance of impropriety standard protects people like Virginia Thomas—spouses and other family members, and close friends of judges who want to have lives and careers and passions of their own. The less sure we are that judges will recuse themselves in cases of conflict, the more we’re likely to worry about—and want to limit—what those close to them are able to do.
* I desperately want to meet the brilliant Democratic operative who managed to convince some rabble-rousing Conservative-types that no, Conservative just wasn’t a strong enough brand; they should really go with something that had more of a founding-era flavor . . . like, say, tea-baggers.
In 2000, while at the Heritage Foundation, she was recruiting staff for a possible George W. Bush administration as her husband was hearing the case that would decide the election.The fact that Justice Thomas’s wife is as far right of the conservative nut-bar line as he is, no big deal. That she’s trying to convince others to join her in her nuttiness . . . that’s what democracy is all about. But the fact that Justice Thomas was deciding a case, in which his wife was working for one of the litigants? Now that strikes me as a problem. To be fair, Virginia Thomas was not working directly for Bush. On the other hand, it’s hard to say that recruiting his staff doesn’t count as working for him at all—at the very least, she was working on his behalf. Furthermore, I think it’s a safe bet that should her husband have decided the other way in Bush v. Gore, her recruitment services would no longer have been needed.
Do I think Justice Thomas would have decided for Gore were it not for his wife’s involvement in the pre-Bush administration? Well, no. This is the man who literally goes years without speaking from the bench, breaking his silence only when a majority of the Court has erred so gravely as to require the President to obey the law or, perhaps even worse, uphold abortion rights.
Still, the standard for recusal is not “Would you have voted that way, anyway?” And for good reason. Actually, lots of good reasons. The reason most often given for imposing upon judges a duty to recuse themselves whenever there is even an appearance of impropriety is that it helps to protect the legitimacy of the Court. But I think there is another reason, one Justice Thomas might want to think about the next time he’s called on to adjudicate a case between his wife’s almost-boss and some other guy who also wants to be president. The appearance of impropriety standard protects people like Virginia Thomas—spouses and other family members, and close friends of judges who want to have lives and careers and passions of their own. The less sure we are that judges will recuse themselves in cases of conflict, the more we’re likely to worry about—and want to limit—what those close to them are able to do.
* I desperately want to meet the brilliant Democratic operative who managed to convince some rabble-rousing Conservative-types that no, Conservative just wasn’t a strong enough brand; they should really go with something that had more of a founding-era flavor . . . like, say, tea-baggers.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
For as long as I can remember, my grandparents have had season tickets to their local theater. Every year, when the brochure announcing the following season arrived, my grandmother would run around the house gathering up all the necessities: the family calendar, a pen, any relevant family members, and several pairs of reading glasses (Why several pairs? For some reason that I’m sure has to do with the War or the Great Depression or some other time when she had to walk uphill to school both ways in the snow, my grandmother seems to think reading glasses are a lot like pens—you never know when they might stop working, so always best to grab a few extra).
Once she had assembled everything one could possibly need to look at a brochure, she and my grandfather would sit together at the kitchen table intensely discussing the merits of the season’s offerings. Not to decide whether to renew their subscription—they always did—but to wind themselves up in anticipation. Most of the time these sessions would end with them both in tears and unable to talk from laughing too hard--about the time Carol Burnett lost her skirt in the middle of the big number; or the time, while they were still dating, that my great-grandfather had given them tickets to see Carousel, but they got stuck in the "fog," and just had to spend all night in the car; or, most frequently as I recall, the time when the actress did the thing which made that guy do the other thing, which in turn made the other guy do the other other thing (which was, apparently, hilarious).
But it seems my grandparents are far more enamored of thinking about going to the theater than actually going. Because, inevitably, on the day of a play at least one of them would beg off—either my grandma would have to work late; or my grandpa’s back was sore; or, once, we were running low on soup (“What if there were an earthquake, and we had no lentil soup? What then? Then, you would wish I had stayed home to cook for you.”). Which meant that growing up, I got to see a lot of plays. (What to do with an extra theater ticket at the last minute? Invite the grandkid!)
Most of the time, this made me feel like the luckiest girl on the planet. There was, however, the occasional flop. The world premier of a new musical written and performed by mimes, for example, turned out not to be so great. As did a three-hour play that consisted of only one scene—four men sitting around a table discussing Russian politics . . . in Russian (there were English surtitles) . . . and cross-dress (or perhaps Russian kilts have ruffles?). So when my grandma told me that I could have her ticket for Sweeney Todd, a musical about a homicidal barber, I was grateful, but cautious. She assured me that I would love it (“It won a Tony for Chrissakes!”), but I remained skeptical—after all, this was the woman who thought singing mimes would be a good idea. Of course, I needn’t have worried. I did love it. (It turns out I love pretty much everything Stephen Sondheim, the musical’s composer, has ever written.) Which I hope explains why when I read this headline this morning about a murderous dentist, my first thought was less along the lines of “Oh no!” and more along the lines of “Yay! A sequel!”
Once she had assembled everything one could possibly need to look at a brochure, she and my grandfather would sit together at the kitchen table intensely discussing the merits of the season’s offerings. Not to decide whether to renew their subscription—they always did—but to wind themselves up in anticipation. Most of the time these sessions would end with them both in tears and unable to talk from laughing too hard--about the time Carol Burnett lost her skirt in the middle of the big number; or the time, while they were still dating, that my great-grandfather had given them tickets to see Carousel, but they got stuck in the "fog," and just had to spend all night in the car; or, most frequently as I recall, the time when the actress did the thing which made that guy do the other thing, which in turn made the other guy do the other other thing (which was, apparently, hilarious).
But it seems my grandparents are far more enamored of thinking about going to the theater than actually going. Because, inevitably, on the day of a play at least one of them would beg off—either my grandma would have to work late; or my grandpa’s back was sore; or, once, we were running low on soup (“What if there were an earthquake, and we had no lentil soup? What then? Then, you would wish I had stayed home to cook for you.”). Which meant that growing up, I got to see a lot of plays. (What to do with an extra theater ticket at the last minute? Invite the grandkid!)
Most of the time, this made me feel like the luckiest girl on the planet. There was, however, the occasional flop. The world premier of a new musical written and performed by mimes, for example, turned out not to be so great. As did a three-hour play that consisted of only one scene—four men sitting around a table discussing Russian politics . . . in Russian (there were English surtitles) . . . and cross-dress (or perhaps Russian kilts have ruffles?). So when my grandma told me that I could have her ticket for Sweeney Todd, a musical about a homicidal barber, I was grateful, but cautious. She assured me that I would love it (“It won a Tony for Chrissakes!”), but I remained skeptical—after all, this was the woman who thought singing mimes would be a good idea. Of course, I needn’t have worried. I did love it. (It turns out I love pretty much everything Stephen Sondheim, the musical’s composer, has ever written.) Which I hope explains why when I read this headline this morning about a murderous dentist, my first thought was less along the lines of “Oh no!” and more along the lines of “Yay! A sequel!”
Sunday, March 14, 2010
One Plus One Plus One Equals ... One?
Yesterday, Republican Kevin Garn resigned from the Utah House of Representatives after acknowledging that twenty-five years ago, he spent a night in a hot tub with a naked fifteen year old girl. No big deal, right? If every guy with a naked hot tub story from his teen years had to resign from office, then . . . well, actually, I have no idea how many politicians have such steamy--sorry, couldn't help myself--pasts.
But, here's the problem. While the girl was fifteen, Garn was twenty-eight. Also, she worked for him. And was his former Sunday school pupil. So, what does any good public servant, embarrassed and remorseful over such an incident, do? Pay the girl off, of course! So, in 2002, in the midst of a failed run for Congress, Garn paid the by then thirty-year-old woman $150,000 for her silence. Except now she seems to have reneged on the deal.
In his resignation speech on Thursday--after the woman had gone to the press--Garn admitted, "now that this issue is coming up again," he realizes that perhaps paying her off was a mistake. You think? Or maybe it was the whole naked-in-a-hot-tub-with-your-current-employee-former-Sunday-school-student-still-well-under-eighteen thing that might have been the mistake?
Garn told his colleagues that he "expect[s] to suffer public humiliation and embarrassment," but he had to come clean [ed. now that it was clear that he was no longer going to be able buy the woman's silence]. He could not "allow one foolish mistake to continue to shadow [his] life." Ummm . . . Representative Garn? I'm no math whiz, but I'm thinking that with the hot-tubbing, and the bribing, and the lying, that's gotta be, what, at least two foolish mistakes, no? Or maybe it was just the getting caught that you were referring to?
But, here's the problem. While the girl was fifteen, Garn was twenty-eight. Also, she worked for him. And was his former Sunday school pupil. So, what does any good public servant, embarrassed and remorseful over such an incident, do? Pay the girl off, of course! So, in 2002, in the midst of a failed run for Congress, Garn paid the by then thirty-year-old woman $150,000 for her silence. Except now she seems to have reneged on the deal.
In his resignation speech on Thursday--after the woman had gone to the press--Garn admitted, "now that this issue is coming up again," he realizes that perhaps paying her off was a mistake. You think? Or maybe it was the whole naked-in-a-hot-tub-with-your-current-employee-former-Sunday-school-student-still-well-under-eighteen thing that might have been the mistake?
Garn told his colleagues that he "expect[s] to suffer public humiliation and embarrassment," but he had to come clean [ed. now that it was clear that he was no longer going to be able buy the woman's silence]. He could not "allow one foolish mistake to continue to shadow [his] life." Ummm . . . Representative Garn? I'm no math whiz, but I'm thinking that with the hot-tubbing, and the bribing, and the lying, that's gotta be, what, at least two foolish mistakes, no? Or maybe it was just the getting caught that you were referring to?
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Cinderella Man
I don’t believe in love in first sight. Never have. Never will. And not for lack of trying either (at least on my Nana’s part). As a kid, I was taken to the ballet, dressed in pink taffeta, and subjected to an endless string of Disney movies, all in the hope that someday I would find faith. But I never could buy into an idea of love, the platonic expression of which was a comatose centenarian in a glass box. Frankly, it all seemed a bit creepy to me. I remember the first time I refused to watch Cinderella – my grandmother was in hysterics for weeks (I thought it was implausible; she thought I was a lesbian).
And yet, here I am after only one evening together, in love. He’s smart, kind, funny, and has an irresistible toupee. (No, really I can't resist - I almost pulled it off, right there at the dinner table). He also happens to be twice my age, gay, and …a Roman Catholic priest.
Okay, so maybe I’m not in love – sorry, Nana – but I am completely fascinated.
I met him this weekend when, after attending a recital, I somehow got whisked away to dinner with the in-crowd (the recitalist, the Music Director, a few businessmen, and the aforementioned Roman Catholic priest/heartthrob). For nearly two hours, the priest was the center of rapt attention. Alternating between pointed critiques of the church, pointed critiques of the other diners, and jokes I am almost certainly not old enough to hear, he single-handedly shattered every stereotype I’ve ever held about Catholic clergy.
And then he disappeared. I never learned his name or what parish he was from or how he came to be part of the in-crowd. Even my most sophisticated google-stalking techniques have come up empty. I may have to resort to the glass slipper approach …
And yet, here I am after only one evening together, in love. He’s smart, kind, funny, and has an irresistible toupee. (No, really I can't resist - I almost pulled it off, right there at the dinner table). He also happens to be twice my age, gay, and …a Roman Catholic priest.
Okay, so maybe I’m not in love – sorry, Nana – but I am completely fascinated.
I met him this weekend when, after attending a recital, I somehow got whisked away to dinner with the in-crowd (the recitalist, the Music Director, a few businessmen, and the aforementioned Roman Catholic priest/heartthrob). For nearly two hours, the priest was the center of rapt attention. Alternating between pointed critiques of the church, pointed critiques of the other diners, and jokes I am almost certainly not old enough to hear, he single-handedly shattered every stereotype I’ve ever held about Catholic clergy.
And then he disappeared. I never learned his name or what parish he was from or how he came to be part of the in-crowd. Even my most sophisticated google-stalking techniques have come up empty. I may have to resort to the glass slipper approach …
Thursday, February 28, 2008
An East Coaster After All
My freshman year of university, I was that girl. You know, the one who came East for college convinced that it couldn’t possibly be THAT cold. Given a parka, a pea coat, and an iron, I would have been hard-pressed to identify the one most appropriate for a snowstorm. I did, however, own several pair of long underwear, a collection amassed over years of fierce L.A. winters.
The first time it snowed, I ran out of the shower, threw on my bathrobe, and skipped down the stairs. Not two minutes later, a gaggle of very amused neighbors looked on as I shivered my way back up in shame – who knew your hair could freeze to your shoulders?
That year I learned the difference between cold, damn cold, and f***ing cold. I learned that you cannot wear flip-flops to class in December, even if it is sunny outside. I learned that East-coasters easily confuse the “yes, Mr. Stranger, I acknowledge your presence as you pass me on the street” smile with the “yes, Mr. Stranger, I would very much like you to take me home and have your way with me this instant” smile. I learned that tennis shoes are called sneakers. And sneakers are called “those shoes that the nice cafeteria ladies wear.” I discovered that I too can produce that horrifying ah sound that apparently distinguishes Aaron and Erin, even without plugging my nose. And that I too can look quizzically at the uninitiated, pretending to be completely unable to understand their ah-less language. Above all, I learned that I am NOT an East-coaster.
So, naturally, here I am a few years later, sitting in my New Haven apartment, watching the snow fall. Lest you think this is merely post-college inertia, I did manage to live in both Louisville and Berkeley before deciding that no, really, that was just way too much sun. Connecticut winters are much nicer indeed -- keep my skin a lovely shade of gray.
Truth be told, I’m beginning to like it here (although, if anyone asks, I’ll deny it). I like that on the East Coast you can drive an hour and a half in any direction and be in a different state. In California, you drive an hour and a half in any direction and … you’ll be in California. I like that people around here can both define and locate public transportation. In Los Angeles, such skills are quite rare, found only among East Coast transplants and those pursuing careers in sociology. I like that on this coast, you can have a good fire going in the wintertime without fear of heat exhaustion -- and without turning on the air conditioner. I like (and hate) that some buildings don’t even have air conditioners. I like that the children in my building all gather outside at the first sign of snow. And I like that, on occasion, they let me join them, even if I am lacking in the color-coordinated snow outfit department. I like hot chocolate, and snow angels, and leaves that change color. And I like wondering if maybe I am an East coaster after all.
The first time it snowed, I ran out of the shower, threw on my bathrobe, and skipped down the stairs. Not two minutes later, a gaggle of very amused neighbors looked on as I shivered my way back up in shame – who knew your hair could freeze to your shoulders?
That year I learned the difference between cold, damn cold, and f***ing cold. I learned that you cannot wear flip-flops to class in December, even if it is sunny outside. I learned that East-coasters easily confuse the “yes, Mr. Stranger, I acknowledge your presence as you pass me on the street” smile with the “yes, Mr. Stranger, I would very much like you to take me home and have your way with me this instant” smile. I learned that tennis shoes are called sneakers. And sneakers are called “those shoes that the nice cafeteria ladies wear.” I discovered that I too can produce that horrifying ah sound that apparently distinguishes Aaron and Erin, even without plugging my nose. And that I too can look quizzically at the uninitiated, pretending to be completely unable to understand their ah-less language. Above all, I learned that I am NOT an East-coaster.
So, naturally, here I am a few years later, sitting in my New Haven apartment, watching the snow fall. Lest you think this is merely post-college inertia, I did manage to live in both Louisville and Berkeley before deciding that no, really, that was just way too much sun. Connecticut winters are much nicer indeed -- keep my skin a lovely shade of gray.
Truth be told, I’m beginning to like it here (although, if anyone asks, I’ll deny it). I like that on the East Coast you can drive an hour and a half in any direction and be in a different state. In California, you drive an hour and a half in any direction and … you’ll be in California. I like that people around here can both define and locate public transportation. In Los Angeles, such skills are quite rare, found only among East Coast transplants and those pursuing careers in sociology. I like that on this coast, you can have a good fire going in the wintertime without fear of heat exhaustion -- and without turning on the air conditioner. I like (and hate) that some buildings don’t even have air conditioners. I like that the children in my building all gather outside at the first sign of snow. And I like that, on occasion, they let me join them, even if I am lacking in the color-coordinated snow outfit department. I like hot chocolate, and snow angels, and leaves that change color. And I like wondering if maybe I am an East coaster after all.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Namings, Weddings, and New Year's, oh my!
When I was a kid, I used to dread New Year’s. Not so much the day itself, but the retrospectives that heralded its coming. Commercial after commercial would advertise the replacement of perfectly good tv shows with clip after clip of people I didn’t recognize. Then the event itself would arrive, and I would sit on the couch smooshed between my grandparents, watching more clips of more people I didn’t recognize. “Such a tragedy,” my grandmother would say. “More ice cream?” my grandfather would respond. And I would nod piously as together they bemoaned the death of people I knew nothing about … although I was quite sure most of them must have been born several hundred years before I was.
Television retrospectives still aren’t my favorite part of the New Year’s celebration. Maybe it’s because I’m too young even now. Or perhaps I just don’t like the ignorance I feel when faced with montages of “famous” people I can’t identify.
But I do like the idea of celebrating lives. I like birthdays. And namings. And brisses, and Baptisms, and weddings (especially those that come with cute ushers). And New Year’s. I like New Year's. I like that with every 365 (or, yes, occasionally 366) days comes a new chance (and the champagne doesn't hurt either).
Television retrospectives still aren’t my favorite part of the New Year’s celebration. Maybe it’s because I’m too young even now. Or perhaps I just don’t like the ignorance I feel when faced with montages of “famous” people I can’t identify.
But I do like the idea of celebrating lives. I like birthdays. And namings. And brisses, and Baptisms, and weddings (especially those that come with cute ushers). And New Year’s. I like New Year's. I like that with every 365 (or, yes, occasionally 366) days comes a new chance (and the champagne doesn't hurt either).
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Trains, planes, and automobiles ...
... or, just trains.
I love trains. See the world. Meet new people. Chat up men in uniform (with whistles, nonetheless). All within an easy walk of a moving oasis of microwaveable foods and stale pretzels. Well, easy insofar as you're able to walk steadily forward in a car moving largely from side to side -- without doing a faceplant in that nice elderly gentleman's lap.
For all these reasons (in combination with my complete inability to drive through any form of precipitation), I decided to take the train yesterday to visit my roommate from college who now lives in Boston. Now normally when I take the train, I choose an empty row, allowing my attention to wander quietly from book to vista to half-dreams involving a bizarre interweaving of the two.
This time, however, I was rescued from my isolation early on by a woman with her two children who, thankfully, despite all the empty surrounding rows, chose to sit right next to me. Not only that, but I was treated to all of the intimate details of her life as she relayed them via cell phone to her husband, then mother, then friend, then boss (?!?), kindly repeating the stories of the day several times in case I didn't catch them the first time 'round. Said stories included the fascinating details of her laundry (it hadn't been done in a while); her dinner (to go out or stay in, decisions, decisions); and story to top all stories, her son's -- yep, the one seated next to me -- morning vomit (must have too much mucous in his throat). Sadly, she got off at Providence leaving me to fend for myself with just a book and a window to keep me company the rest of the way.
I love trains. See the world. Meet new people. Chat up men in uniform (with whistles, nonetheless). All within an easy walk of a moving oasis of microwaveable foods and stale pretzels. Well, easy insofar as you're able to walk steadily forward in a car moving largely from side to side -- without doing a faceplant in that nice elderly gentleman's lap.
For all these reasons (in combination with my complete inability to drive through any form of precipitation), I decided to take the train yesterday to visit my roommate from college who now lives in Boston. Now normally when I take the train, I choose an empty row, allowing my attention to wander quietly from book to vista to half-dreams involving a bizarre interweaving of the two.
This time, however, I was rescued from my isolation early on by a woman with her two children who, thankfully, despite all the empty surrounding rows, chose to sit right next to me. Not only that, but I was treated to all of the intimate details of her life as she relayed them via cell phone to her husband, then mother, then friend, then boss (?!?), kindly repeating the stories of the day several times in case I didn't catch them the first time 'round. Said stories included the fascinating details of her laundry (it hadn't been done in a while); her dinner (to go out or stay in, decisions, decisions); and story to top all stories, her son's -- yep, the one seated next to me -- morning vomit (must have too much mucous in his throat). Sadly, she got off at Providence leaving me to fend for myself with just a book and a window to keep me company the rest of the way.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Some Things Never Change
"I'm going to be a trashman." Or so I proclaimed for years, every time I was asked the dreaded question – “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” I loved the alternately amused and bemused reactions of my inquisitors when faced with a little girl in ruffles proclaiming a passion for waste management. Not to mention the added satisfaction of watching my grandma make the "I'm totally mortified, but if I just purse my lips and smile, everyone will think I am the most wonderful and supportive grandmother ever" face (I’m still not sure whether it was the trash part or the man part that upset her most). Everyone would laugh. I had spunk, they said. At six, I couldn’t yet articulate that I was inexplicably drawn to the cacophony of churning glass against glass against metal, to the safety of a life lived largely within sturdy metal walls.
Apparently, some things never change. I'm still captivated by the world of sound. And, it seems, I still have spunk. Men tell me so with a difficult-to-interpret half-laugh, half-wink, hoping, I think, to see more. Older ladies tell me so with one eyebrow raised, hoping, I'm sure, to see less. And, truth be told, sometimes I still want to be a trash collector. There are days when I want nothing more than to make a noise the whole world can hear, nothing more than a large smelly container within which nobody can find me.
Apparently, some things never change. I'm still captivated by the world of sound. And, it seems, I still have spunk. Men tell me so with a difficult-to-interpret half-laugh, half-wink, hoping, I think, to see more. Older ladies tell me so with one eyebrow raised, hoping, I'm sure, to see less. And, truth be told, sometimes I still want to be a trash collector. There are days when I want nothing more than to make a noise the whole world can hear, nothing more than a large smelly container within which nobody can find me.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Pretty People
After several riveting rounds of the what-nothing game, my wonderful, yet ambiguous, visitor left for the airport this afternoon. Videos were watched; Thai food was eaten; tension was ignored. A good time was had by all.
After he left, I carted myself off to the gym to run off any lingering confusion (and Thai food). I walked onto the floor, and immediately found myself awash in a sea of pink lycra. It was 5:30, and "the pretty people" were out in full force. You couldn't do one tricep dip without getting a honeybabysweetheart from a gruff-looking man with no neck. I did my 45 minutes and got out of there, reminding myself yet again why I don't work out between the hours of 5 and 7 pm.
If gyms are ecosystems, 5-7 is apparently not my niche.
My in-depth scientific research (i.e. going to the gym) has revealed that gym habitats appear to be arranged not so much geographically as chronologically. There are the 5-8ers, executive types. They arrive in the latest moisture-wicking technology and leave precisely sixty minutes later in pinstripes. They are well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-built. Elliptical machines, stairmasters, and treadmills are their stomping ground. The stationary bikes are unused and unloved, for early morning gymgoers do not exercise sitting down.
As the pencil-skirt brigade makes its exit, a new set begins to trickle in. These are the 9-5ers, people who work out while the world is at work. Though by far the largest habitat, it is also the least populated, with people meandering in and out throughout the day. Workday gymgoers are friendly creatures, coming as much to chat as to work out. They are easily recognized by their uniform: oversized t-shirt and undersized leggings. Typically, though not always, they are sporting at least one (if not several) iron-on Mickey Mouse decals. There are no men of the species.
5:30 heralds the arrival of the pretty people, so named not so much because we think they are, but because they think they are. Women of the species wear as little as possible, but that which is worn is brightly colored. Many seem to have had an unfortunate run-in with an Almay truck in the recent past. Female pretty people have the miraculous ability to spend hours at the gym without touching a single piece of equipment. Males wear tank tops with inordinately large arm-holes and mesh shorts advertising their steroid of choice. Their necks are often diminished, or completely gone, having fallen prey to their ever-expanding shoulders. They walk from machine to machine, straining to lift twice their body weight, and then precipitously (and ear-splittingly) dropping it to the floor. Pretty people are constantly on guard, always on the look out for other pretty people.
Finally there is the evening crowd, the 7-10 folks. This group is still a mystery. Some wear spandex, some sweats. Some come for the nifty tvs that are attached to the treadmills, some to check out the rear ends of those who came for the nifty tvs. Clearly, more research into this group is needed.
Now, where does a non-lycra-owning, crazy-hours-working musician fit into this schema? Your guess is as good as mine.
After he left, I carted myself off to the gym to run off any lingering confusion (and Thai food). I walked onto the floor, and immediately found myself awash in a sea of pink lycra. It was 5:30, and "the pretty people" were out in full force. You couldn't do one tricep dip without getting a honeybabysweetheart from a gruff-looking man with no neck. I did my 45 minutes and got out of there, reminding myself yet again why I don't work out between the hours of 5 and 7 pm.
If gyms are ecosystems, 5-7 is apparently not my niche.
My in-depth scientific research (i.e. going to the gym) has revealed that gym habitats appear to be arranged not so much geographically as chronologically. There are the 5-8ers, executive types. They arrive in the latest moisture-wicking technology and leave precisely sixty minutes later in pinstripes. They are well-dressed, well-mannered, and well-built. Elliptical machines, stairmasters, and treadmills are their stomping ground. The stationary bikes are unused and unloved, for early morning gymgoers do not exercise sitting down.
As the pencil-skirt brigade makes its exit, a new set begins to trickle in. These are the 9-5ers, people who work out while the world is at work. Though by far the largest habitat, it is also the least populated, with people meandering in and out throughout the day. Workday gymgoers are friendly creatures, coming as much to chat as to work out. They are easily recognized by their uniform: oversized t-shirt and undersized leggings. Typically, though not always, they are sporting at least one (if not several) iron-on Mickey Mouse decals. There are no men of the species.
5:30 heralds the arrival of the pretty people, so named not so much because we think they are, but because they think they are. Women of the species wear as little as possible, but that which is worn is brightly colored. Many seem to have had an unfortunate run-in with an Almay truck in the recent past. Female pretty people have the miraculous ability to spend hours at the gym without touching a single piece of equipment. Males wear tank tops with inordinately large arm-holes and mesh shorts advertising their steroid of choice. Their necks are often diminished, or completely gone, having fallen prey to their ever-expanding shoulders. They walk from machine to machine, straining to lift twice their body weight, and then precipitously (and ear-splittingly) dropping it to the floor. Pretty people are constantly on guard, always on the look out for other pretty people.
Finally there is the evening crowd, the 7-10 folks. This group is still a mystery. Some wear spandex, some sweats. Some come for the nifty tvs that are attached to the treadmills, some to check out the rear ends of those who came for the nifty tvs. Clearly, more research into this group is needed.
Now, where does a non-lycra-owning, crazy-hours-working musician fit into this schema? Your guess is as good as mine.
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