The Locker Room

In case it's been a while since you've suffered through high school gym class, let me take you on a stroll through memory lane. Fortunately for me, my afternoon gym conquest was nothing short of a bad VH1 reality TV show. Upon completing what seemed like an endless run on the terrormill, I limped into the suana for some pore-cleansing hell. As neurotic as I am, I always bring reading material to give the impression to my fellow sweaters that I am reading, while in actuality, I am just posing so to avoid lame small talk. Rude? Maybe, but at least its subtle rudeness. Unlike the sweaty beheamoth next to me. This lady was a talkerrrrrrrrrrr. Judging by her lack of social skills, I'm guessing she's probably the cliche'd crazy cat woman, who's only sort of social contact occurs by accosting innocent strangers, just trying to get their sweat on (me). Anyways, not 5 minutes had passed before she inquired, "Whatcha readin'?" While temped to respond with "No Engles" I reluctantly held up my December "Vogue" and smiled (I mean, hell, I was reading VOGUE, and NOT the Spanish version). Only for her to reply with an eager, "Cool!!" and scootch up next to me. Did I mention we were in a SUANA. You know, the insanely small wooden hot boxes that serve as the equivalent as a human microwave. Ah, this pesky buttinsky wasn't giving up easily. I knew at this precise moment my sauna time was going to have to be cut short. This sauna wasn't big enough for the both of us. And let's face it, given my exhausted, hungry, and sweaty state of being---it is not totally unforseeable that I might do something crazy, like say...mistake her thick arm for a chicken wing and take a heaping bite. Due to her ridiculously close proximity, I wasn't sure how I could discreetly move away without blatently offending her. So I bailed. "Oh, w" I thought to myself. I washed my face and began to unload my locker so I could change into my comfy sweats for the drive home, when who appeared with her stuff (I kid you not) in the locker RIGHT beneath mine. To fully understand how improbable this is, let me inform you of the plethora of available lockers. probably close to two hundred. And Talkers-MaGee chose the locker which was directly under mine. Now I was certain. I was indeed, being "punk'd". If only....but no, no Ashton popping out from around the corner with a big smile and camera crew. Instead, the talkative sweat-er was again angling for some more "girl-talk" as she tried to compliment me on my Dooney and Bourke gym bag. I should have gone the "no engles" route. Upon thanking her and cramming my stuff into my bag as haphazardly as I could, sorta like the way I would if had just woken up in a strange guys bed after one two many shots of vodka the night before, I jammed my feet into my shoes and prayed that I didnt leave anything behind. Just as I was about to grab the last of my things, I noticed her leaning over the bench half naked while her ginormous SWEATY boob dangled above my bag (cringe, gasp!) . In sheer horror, I looked up--which she must have erroneously interpreted as a sign of friendship--when she squealed, "It so crassy". Um okay, The contraction is "it'S". New Rule this year: sentences MUST HAVE VERBS! No verb, no sentence! and in the word is cLassy. LLLLLLLLLLLLL. I wasn't sure if I should send her the dry cleaning bill now or later. But upon realizing that this would likely lead to further interaction in some minor way, I opted to suck it up and high-tail it the hell out of ther. Moral of the story: No Engles, lo siento.