I'm not going to claim that I am not one to complain because let's face it - I really am. Let's have a little walk-through my day today.
Alarm goes off at 8:30. Why? Because I have to go to work today. I haul my hung-over self out of bed, stumble about the apartment pulling various things together, say bye to Jena, and go off in search of a lock (for the gym, which I have to be at by 9:30). I have to go to 3 (three) different convenience stores before I can find one - to understand how frustrating this may be, remember that you (pretending to be me) are:
(i) hung over;
(ii) probably going to be late;
(iii) going to work on a Saturday - knowing that you are also going on Sunday;
(iv) riding a bike, so every trip involves dismount, lockage, etc.
I get the lock (sweet victory) and head for the gym - where I am questioned, poked, weighed...and MEASURED. Two separate problems spring from the measuring, and so I will treat each individually, in order of bad to worst:
1) Body Fat Content
Its 9:30 on fucking Saturday morning, my head is pounding, I look like a moron in my "workout gear" (side note - since when do people look cool when they work out? Fully planned and color co-ordinated outfits. Fitted stylish tops. It's not right.) and now I have to be told my body fat content. They also measured my bustline, waist, arms, AND THIGHS. Thanks for the eating disorder, swanky gym. What a kick in the proverbial nuts.
2) Height
I AM SHORTER THAN I THOUGHT I WAS. Unbelievable. Here was one body measurement I thought I had down pat, since I insist on being measured at every trip to my doctor in order to check and see if I have grown. I would desperately like to be 5"5. My lovely doctor has always told me that I was 5"4 and a half. The half was important to me. I clung to it. But this morning it was violently taken from me when I was informed that I was really more like 5"4 and a quarter. I almost cried right then and there. I am devastated.
Work was fine, so I can't really complain about that. There was a busker playing "Making Whoopee" on his saxaphone over and over in the street, which is the most terrible song in the whole world. I know this because I had to learn how to play it for my jazz band in high school. It makes me want to put razor sharp things in my ears. He eventually went away though, which was awesome. It was like I discovered white noise again for the first time.
I rode my bike home in the rain, which kind of sucked - what really sucked was getting stuck behind people on really nice bikes who were going super-fucking slow and kinda waving about so I couldn't pass them.
For all intents and purposes, I should be the slowest vehicle on the road. I am piloting a forest-green no-name second-hand old-man bike with a massive basket and no brakes about the city - I haven't even tried changing gears for fear that the whole gear-changing apparatus may distintegrate or fall off or something. Despite this, on two separate occasions I find myself stuck behind some geared-out bike fanatic who is practicing what its going to be like to bike when they are crazy, senile old people with no balance and no idea where they are pedalling to*. And its pouring rain.
*Please note - I really quite like elderly people. I'm not going for mean, really just for a visual. I want you to feel like you were there. Soaking wet and going so slow the bike may fall over.