just plain mean and judgemental

Last night I had one of the gayest, if not the gayest, experiences of my life—which is sayin’ somethin’. I got to see Legally Blonde—the Musical. It wasn’t something I wanted to see. Love the movie, thought the play would be ridiculous. And, it was. In the most perfect way. Top four theater experiences of all time! (Here’s the order, just so ya know: Tied for first—Wicked and Avenue Q. Tied for second—Mamma Mia and Legally Blonde. Wow. I haven’t laughed that hard in. . . actually, I truly don’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. Thank you so much for the free tickets, RB! (plus it was fun to both see all the gay gay gay boys at the play last night, as well as the old people (especially the men) who just weren’t quite getting what was going on around them. Priceless.
While we are on the subject of old men not getting what is going on around them, I once more have to talk about the gym. There are several things that make me furious when I am at the gym, which I have talked about before, but there are also several things in the locker room/sauna/steam room that drive me crazy as well (which I know I have mentioned before). There are these old, fat, fat & old men that simply sit in the steam room and stretch their necks—literally. They will turn their flabby heads as slowly as possible to one side and then hold it for an eternity and then rotated it the other direction. Sometimes, apparently when feeling overly energetic, the will lift their chin up to the ceiling, and then lower it to their ‘chest’ (really, if I wanted to see breasts, I’d sneak into the girls’ locker room). Sometimes, they will go so far as to raise their arms up to shoulder level and then slowly flap them like a featherless bird who ate the rest of it’s flock and now doesn’t know how to get up in the sky and can’t understand why they are alone. I’m not completely sure why their pointless and asinine actions drive me nearly to the point of violence, but it takes everything I have in me not to verbally assassinate them. I am okay will the right to be fat. I’ve exercised the right plenty myself (and am sure I will again)—however, when your waist has more inches than your height, just stop already. Yesterday, there was a skinny older man in the steam room, and it was one of the creepiest experiences of my life (not kidding). His face was completely slack, like someone who had just died (I’m really not exaggerating at all, in fact, I’m not a good enough writer to truly share what this was like), it was sallow and waxen. He moved at a snail’s pace—a snail with a limp. He sat there, doing the motions described above, slower than you’d ever dream possible, and after each movement, he would turn at stare at different people in the room—the kind of stare where he is looking just above your head, or just to the left or right of you. You know my fear of zombies. Well, he was one. Had to be. He truly looked like nearly every zombie I have ever seen—the only difference was that his skin wasn’t rotting off yet. I truly was prepared to leap from my seat and rush to the door as soon as he launched himself, mouth gaping, towards someone’s face.
While we are on the subject of old men, let’s talk about old women. There is this woman who works my Starbucks who I thought was playing a joke the first few times I was in, or thought she had just had a surgery of some sort. Her voice isn’t gravelly. It is like a semi and a concrete truck smashing together and be drug, shredded metal pieces raking the ground, ceaselessly. Not to mention, she’s more baritone than any daddy singer in a barbershop quartet I’ve ever heard. Now, you might assume someone cursed with such a painful voice (it has to hurt her to talk, it just has to!) would limit their volume. No. She is always five to ten decibels above everyone else—typically hollering out the window to a customer or across the store to someone else, typically making a joke—causing everyone in the store to pee their pants in fright and anguish. After I realized she wasn’t sick or suffering a surgery, I thought maybe she was going through a sex change procedure. Nope, she’s all woman (well, I’m pretty sure—not gonna do the investigation required to confirm). Today, to my utter astonishment, her husband (HUSBAND—SHE’S MARRIED!!!) brought in her glasses she’d left at home. You should have heard her rejoice. Rejoice. From the top of her lungs. For a long, long time. (I wonder if her husband has hearing issues, maybe to him, she sounds normal. Either way, I’m not going to think about how she married the man she loved and I can’t. Seriously!) While I’m always glad to get out of her vicinity (I’m not exaggerating when I say it hurts to hear her), there is something very endearing about her. She doesn’t give a shit (or is blissfully unaware) that her voice causes miscarriages in people miles and miles away—she just loves being alive and telling everyone within earshot (even those who technically shouldn’t be in earshot) about her life.
While we are on the subject of old women, there is a check-out lady at the Safeway I go to that I inevitably end up with. She is this cute woman, cuddly and mid-western in appearance. She carries on a normal conversation and is always friendly. A very nice woman. Until she hands over the receipt. Then, for some reason, she transforms into having non-cursing turrets syndrome. Her voice suddenly raises an octave and her speed increases as if she’d just taken fifteen shots of espresso. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Witt. Have a great day. Thank you. Thanks for coming in, Mr. Witt. You have a great day, Mr. Witt. I hope you have a great day. Bye now. Thanks, Mr. Witt. See you later. Thank for coming in. Have a great day. Thank you, Mr. Witt. I hope you have great day, Mr. Witt.” All this said in a rush (plus some), within in three seconds, truly. I try to copy her on my way to car, every time. I never can do it. I get too tongue tied. I’m not sure what happens to her in that moment, but somehow I always forget that she does it, and she startles me every single time. I’m manage not to jump anymore, but it’s like someone pours a bucket of ice water on you when you’re off daydreaming every time she tries to say goodbye. It’s rather nice, I always leave the store laughing and shaking my head.
Sigh, old people…