Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?

(They Should Be)

I am not known for having a long fuse; I imagine this fact is why many of you are here.

An awareness that I do not have a ton of chill is why I actively work to manage myself. I am diligent about taking time to decompress and reset, trying to get the needle out of the red. The best way for me to do this is to spend time poolside, as the solution is always to put crabs in water.

However, I haven’t had much chance to submerge and recharge in the past few months, what with all my projects coming due at the same time. To be clear, I manage my time well. I am famous for saying, “I’d love to, but I can’t right now. If you want to work with me, I can start on X date.” I take on clients only when I know I have an opening, because the last thing in the world I want is a million things going on at once, especially during the brief Chicago summer.

I struggle when clients have lives/events/other priorities that push back our timetable and suddenly I go from having one thing due to ALL THE DAMN THINGS DUE. (This is bad for a variety of reasons, including not having the time to fill my funnel so I have work six months from now.)

My point is, I’ve had some recent projects unnecessarily consuming my whole life, despite my best efforts, despite being outside of the scope of work, despite etc. Suffice it to say I have untapped rage here, especially because the Venn diagram of those who demand the most and pay the slowest is a single, unbroken circle.

Last week I was complaining to my personal trainer Phil that I have had no time for anything, not getting my hair colored, not getting my nails done, not having my Botox refreshed, not sitting outside, so I look and feel haggard. He was all, “You have to take time for self-care,” to which I replied, “That’s why I’m HERE, Phil.”

If you listen to the podcast, I mention Phil every week, largely because he’s the only person outside of Fletch with whom I have any regular in-person contact. The benefit is not only am I getting stronger, but seeing him may be the one thing keeping me from going entirely apeshit, particularly given the news cycle.

On Friday, right before I was supposed to leave to see Phil, he texted me that his car needed a jump and he wouldn’t make it to our session, so… adult snow day unlocked! Not only did I have time to address my chores—hello seven baskets of clean laundry—but I also got to read while wallowing in the Bermuda Rectangle. Perfection!

The only down side was I had to make up my training session yesterday, which was Saturday. I try to avoid places like the gym and Costco on the weekends because they’re full of day-jobbers who only have Saturday mornings to get their shit done. Ergo they come out of the gate with zombie-like intensity and no regard for anyone in their peripheral vision.

My gym is fancy and it’s populated with entitled assholes on its best day. My training times coincide when there are the fewest people on the weights floor for this exact reason. Between 11am-1pm is the sweet spot on M, W, F. But at 11am on Saturday? It’s the GD Thunderdome. If you like having people closing doors in your face or leaving the machine coated in sweat and body glitter, you are in for a treat.

Yesterday, I was waiting for a parking space to open, having taken a few laps around the lot. I was clearly in line for the space, yet I was giving the person who was backing out plenty of room to do so. The second they left the spot, a white BMW 7 yeeted the space from me, driving diagonally in front of my car to do so.

Like, how do you miss a 6,000-pound SUV?

Rhetorical question—you don’t.

The passengers were a couple in their mid-30s and the woman was wearing a stupid oversized straw sun hat with a giant bow, meaning they were headed to the pool and weren’t rushing to make it to a class. They saw that they’d taken my space and didn’t even give me an oops-sorry-didn’t-see-you wave, instead choosing to stare dead ahead.

This is why I had no choice but to pull up behind them and block them in so I could thoroughly flip them off while honking. Also, I was driving Fletch’s car with the lift-kit, so the vehicle already looks a little unhinged, and that’s without the raging, wronged perimenopausal passenger at the wheel.

In having taking the time to intimidate them by expressing my displeasure, the very best spot in the lot opened, so I parked there. Then I stood in front of the entrance for the next seven minutes, arms crossed, staring at their vehicle, waiting for these assholes to come out of their car, as I planned to point out their poor behavior in detail.

Those cowards refused to get out of their car the entire time I waited.

Finally, I had to go inside because Phil panics if I’m late.

Turns out, I had a fantastic workout, where Phil praised my focus and hustle, because I had to do something with that adrenaline dump. When I got home, Fletch said, “At some point, you are going to get the confrontation that you so desire, and I suspect it will not go the way you anticipate.”

I suspect he is wrong.

He can fight me over that.