talking and sweating and talking and talking...

So it's a two-blog-day, but I just have to share.

About two hours ago:

I head to the gym. In the locker room, I put on my gym shorts and they're t-i-g-h-t. Blech. No matter, I say, press on!! I do, and head to the elliptical machines upstairs. Soon I'm puffing away, reading the October 23 issue of the New Yorker. (Brad Leithauser has a heartbreaking poem in there, by the way. DO NOT READ IT if you or someone you are close to has lost a child. Or maybe you/they should read it. I have no idea. But if I had lost a child and I was working out and came across this poem--titled "Son"--and read it, I would have lost it right there. Totally. Writhing in grief at hte foot of the elliptical machine. Of this I am quite sure.)

Two undergrad blondies are puffing away on each side of me. The one on the right is leaning on the bars of her machine in a way that makes me want to scream "you're cheating, you stupid wench, and it's bad for your back" but I don't, I hold back, return to my reading. The next thing I know, the one on my left is dialing her cell phone. I hear "Hi Mom," and then "how are you feeling?" and then "I got your package. It was soooo funny! *giggle* I miss you!"

I look around. Does anyone else see how ridiculous this is? The girl's cell phone is pink, for goodness sake. She keeps talking. Fifteen minutes pass. I'm sweating and smelly. Twenty-five minutes. "Well I don't care, it's not my fault," I hear her say.

Folks stroll by on their way to the drinking fountain. I see them look at annoying pink cell girl and then look away. I know I can't expect them to take action and wrench the phone from her manicured fingers, but I wish someone would.

Oh, how I wish someone would.