A Bad Case of the Mondays

Do you ever have one of those days when everything irritates you?

The day started pissing me off during my 8:30 spin class.  I like going to spin class because it’s dark and the music is loud and everyone can work at an individual pace, so there isn’t a lot of competition. Unfortunately, my ADD inhibits my ability to tune out the people around me, but this morning was worse than usual.

Two women sat in the back near each other, and they managed to annoy about half the class. One of the ladies is regularly aggravating. She wears a baseball cap which she pulls down low on her face. She parks her phone in the center of the bike’s handle bar/water cage, and shops while she spins. She has no interest in doing what the instructor directs or what the rest of the class is doing. She just sits on her ass, pedaling slowly and shopping online. The light from her phone in an otherwise darkened room is pretty fucking rude, and if you don’t believe me, think about that the next time the douche in front of you checks his texts during a movie.

The other woman is another one of those misguided fools who thinks she knows better than the spin instructor.  Like her nitwit friend, she refused to do what the rest of us were doing.  Instead, she opted to add as much tension as the bike could tolerate before breaking, as she struggled for every turn of the flywheel. The bike wasn’t just under tremendous strain; it actually called out for help in a series of unpleasant mechanical noises louder than the music.

Have you been in a spin class? The music is pretty loud.

So here was this pair of ladies, one with the hat, shopping and barely moving, the other struggling to ride up Mount Everest. They decided that spin class was the perfect opportunity to have a very loud and animated conversation. I almost couldn’t hear the sound of the bike breaking over their chatting.

I go to the gym to exercise, to relieve stress, and yes, to socialize. I make a point of limiting my chit chat to the start of class or after it ends rather than solidly through the entire thing.  I might sing along with the music, but at least I am singing the song that’s playing.  I wanted to ride my stationary spin bike over to their corner and knock the hat off the one twit’s head while pushing the other one right off her seat.

After I left, I got in the car and drove around to run a few errands. I listened to the radio as I drove. I don’t have a satellite subscription, so I listen to actual FM stations like it’s 1992 in my car. The DJ on one station was talking about getting out his kilt tomorrow for St. Patrick’s Day. I wanted to call in to the station just to tell him what a moron he is.

Since it wasn’t the first idiotic St. Patrick’s Day comment I heard on the radio today, and not even the same station, I feel the need to say a few things.  First of all, I could give two shits about St. Patrick’s Day. I’m Jewish, not Irish. The only person of Irish descent that I know well is my piece of shit step-dad. I try not to hold that against the rest of the people from Ireland, so here goes:  I love potatoes.

While I am not down with the all the Irish stuff that goes into a proper St. Paddy’s Day celebration, I do know a few things.  Kilts are worn primarily by Scottish people. It’s called the Blarney Stone, not the Barney Stone. I don’t want to kiss you because you have a button or a green t-shirt, and just because you have red hair doesn’t make you Irish. We are not all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.

Also, the pressure to wear green is fucking ridiculous. I am tired of having a debate over turquoise and teal. You see blue, I see green. Can we agree to disagree without you feeling justified in assaulting me? Why do we have a holiday that allows for unwanted physical contact because we can’t agree on what green is? I don’t want to be pinched because I don’t own any green clothing that I am willing to show you. Leave me the fuck alone.

And while you’re at it, that applies to my children as well. Right now, I have a thirteen year old upstairs crying in her room because she doesn’t think she has enough green on her shirt to avoid being attacked tomorrow. The other one wore a green shirt today because she is fifteen and the brain doesn’t fire accurately. She does have another green shirt, but it has spaghetti straps, so she can’t wear it to school without something over it. I pointed that out to her but she wanted me to figure out the something over it part. “What do I look like, Stacey Fucking London?” I said to her. I love that she is fifteen and I can say fuck now.

Since I’m already venting, here’s a few more things. To my kid’s science teacher: Stop fucking assigning major projects with less than a week to work on them. Even a bank takes 5-7 business days to do a bank to bank transfer. Why does my daughter have to create a video or write a story or create a colorful comic book that is LOL funny in four days or less? Also, never write LOL on a rubric. You are just trying too hard, and I am pretty sure anyone who wants a project about digestion to be LOL funny isn’t going to be the best judge of funny.  You just gave the seventh grade free range to make fart and poop jokes in an effort to get extra credit.

Whew. I am starting to feel better.  Almost good enough to fold the laundry, except that all the socks are still wet because the people in my house refuse to unball them. UNBALL YOUR SOCKS, PEOPLE. I don’t mind doing the laundry, but have some common decency.  I have a feeling Lizzie Borden’s parents left their socks in balls, and they got what was coming to them. From now on, all the inside out t-shirts and underwear and balled socks will be folded in the condition in which they are found. If you want your undies outside out, you can refold them. I don’t care anymore.

 No, I am not pre-menstrual. I am just sick of today.