July 04, 2005

Paranoia, the Destroyer (of Workouts)

I think I'm leaving off comments on this one. I don't need some well-meaning halfwit to show up and lecture me about how I shouldn't feel this way and it's really all my problem.

It is not my problem.

Fucking hell, some days I hate being female.

So I have this sort-of routine set up where I try to do 30 minutes of cardiovascular and 20-30 minutes of strength training Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays I just do 45 minutes on the treadmill. I say it's a sort-of routine because it doesn't always come off quite like that.

Today, for example.

I'm real near the end of my 30 minutes on the treadmill when some beefy middle-aged guy who isn't a regular, and looks it, puts his key in the lock of the workout room at my complex. I'm not thrilled about this because I'm an antisocial bitch and so far I've had the room to myself, other than a nice elderly woman who was there for the first five minutes watching some overblown drama on Lifetime--but at least, I figure, I'm halfway done already. I won't have to put up with him for long.

But his key doesn't work.

I deliberately keep my eyes on the television. I'm not getting off the treadmill and letting him in. Do you know why? Because my attitude about that sort of thing is too fucking bad.

I mean, how do I know the guy lives here? How do I know he's not a rapist?

Go on, laugh--but it's not funny. The workout room is technically in the public view in the sense that it's near the office, but the office is closed today for the holiday. And while the main fitness area has windows people can see into, the restrooms are tucked down a hallway off to the side, a hallway with no windows, and if someone dragged you back there . . . .

It's not funny! They put locks on these things for a reason: To ensure that only people who are supposed to be able to get in can get in.

Your key doesn't work? Well, ain't that a shame, Cletus.

So I don't get off the treadmill, but this jackass keeps trying to unlock the door for at least three minutes, ensuring I get to feel really uncomfortable about not letting him in. As I said, however, I'm an antisocial bitch. I can live with being uncomfortable. Hell, I feel uncomfortable around people most of the time. It's my default state. I'm used to it.

Then he wanders off and I think, oh, thank goodness.

Then he comes back.

Tries his key for a couple more minutes. I'm not even enjoying Designer Finals anymore. DAMN it.

Wanders off again. Returns with one of the residents he has dragged from the pool.

Who proceeds to let the guy in with his key.

Do you know why security in this country is a farce and a joke? Do you know why we could seal the borders tomorrow and people who wanted to get into the U.S. would still be able to? Because some friendly, good-natured, gullible jackass can always be counted on to let them in.

"Sure, stranger! Lemme just get my key here--boy, these locks, huh? Real aggravatin'. I dunno why they put 'em in. Seems like it's all just a big hassle, Mr. . . ."

"Bin Laden."

"[click] Well there ya go, Mr. Bin Laden, she's open. Come on in! I hope you enjoy your stay and I hope you'll permit me to welcome you to the U.S. of A."

"Thank you. Death to the infidel!"

"Oh, izzat how you say howdy where you're from? Well all right then--death to the infidel! Ha, ha! Boy, you Brazilians sure are a fun buncha folks."

It's useless. Useless. You could lock everything up tomorrow, it wouldn't matter. Some yokel who thinks it's "mean" to leave someone locked out will fuck it all up in an instant.

I don't care if I'm mean. I've said so before and I'm standing by it. I didn't like the vibe on this guy when he was outside trying to get in; I liked the vibe on him even less when he did get in.

Something was just off--maybe the way he went straight for the lat pull-down machine without any warm-up whatsoever. Maybe the way he did only a handful of reps on that before moving to another machine. Maybe the way he seemed to prefer machines that were between me and the door.

I'm not the kind who sits around puzzling why I get bad vibes when I get them. I don't sit there beating myself up for having them, either. Sure! Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe the guy just hadn't used the workout room in awhile and they'd changed the locks since the last time, and thus his key no longer worked. Maybe he only dallied at the machines because he really is out of shape and lacks stamina. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But the worst that can come of me being paranoid is that some guy I don't know thinks I have a hostility problem, and see, I already know I have a hostility problem, so big fucking deal.

No, I'm not one to chastise myself for not being more friendly to strangers. I'm one to just walk out.

Furious, and feeling like I need to run this anger off all over again.

Posted by Ilyka at July 4, 2005 10:54 PM in navel gazing