Ok, two posts in one day, I'm just going crazy.
I'm also feeling really old, because I am about to complain about 'kids these days.'
The last few times I have gone to the store and made a purchase involving cash, I have had to instruct the cashier on the proper amount of change to give to me.
Seriously. It's math. You learn that in elementary school, and continue to practice it all the freaking time.

Also:
Your= Something you own or posses.
You're= A contraction of the words 'you' and 'are.'
Here they are together in a sentence: 'Your English teacher should go home and commit ritualistic suicide for her failure in teaching you, because you're incapable of using it correctly. Your math teacher should too.'
Ur= An ancient city in Mesopotamia.

Whaaaaa? You're Kidding. No, seriously, you mean this isn't The Onion?

So I ran across this headline in my Google Homepage, and thought it must have been the ocassional Onion article that gets put up as "real news."
But as it turns out, it comes from The Guardian, a London, England newspaper which, as it turns out, is supposed to be a reputable news source.

A few questions:
Why now? What has changed? Was this not a viable option four years ago?
So many questions.

Naked Isn't Nice

This year I joined the YMCA. I have been going about three times a week to run on the cardio equipment and lift weights. I go in before work, usually, and bring my work clothes, so I can just shower there and head to work, which is conveniently located right next door.
I have thus far enjoyed my membership to the 'Y,' as it has, among other things, reacquainted me with an old friend from college, one Tiffany Latimer. Only it's not Latimer anymore. It's something else that I never bothered to find out. She works there now. Good kid that Tiffany.
But, Tiffany is not the important part of this story. She's one part, but not the good part. I specifically started this story with Tiffany, so that at any time, should you feel the need, you could let your eyes drift up to the opening paragraph and remember the cute little blond girl from CMSU. This is what I really wanted to write about:

At about 8 am today, Wednesday February 7th, I was about a mile and half into my morning run, watching Mike and Mike in the Morning on ESPN2, when I heard this news story, which, of course, made me think of the story that I will now tell.

I chose to workout in the morning, because I feel refreshed and awakened after I finish. The fact that my office is literally less than a football (American or otherwise) field away from the front door of the 'Y' makes it extremely easy for me to head in a few hours early and hit the gym. But, once I've finished my workout, I need to shower and get ready for work. This should be no problem. I'm comfortable with my own body, I have no homophobic fear of showering with other men in a communal shower. I understand that seeing naked man ass is going to be a part of the process of going to the 'Y'. The locker room has everything that I might need to get ready to head into work. So there should be no reason for me to dislike the time I spend in the locker room.

But there is a reason: The Overly Naked Guy.

He's about 50. Has a beer belly. Has back hair. Refuses to wear a towel.
Once his clothes come off when he hits the locker room, he's naked for a good thirty minutes. As I said before, I go into the locker room knowing that naked man ass is part of the equation. But no one expects to see so much of it for so long. The man brushes his teeth naked. In public. Who does that? When it's time to urinate he doesn't waste any time by putting on any clothing. Hell, he's been naked for twenty minutes already. He just wanders over to the urinal and does his business. Naked. That's very disconcerting if you happen to be standing next to him.
And then there's the "Shorts must be worn at all times in the Steam Room" policy that he seems to believe is a suggestion.

The man seems to be omnipresent. I know that if I am in that locker room, there is an 80% chance that he will be there, too. And if he is there, then the chance that he'll be naked is 99%.

I originally thought he might be mentally challenged. Those thoughts went away when he struck up a conversation with me the other day. He seems to be a really nice guy, a hard working accountant. Maybe he's a nudist. I really don't know. I do know that he isn't 'slow,' and he doesn't seem to be a pervert. Either one would be an acceptable explanation. (Though it would do nothing to erase the image of the man brushing his teeth three feet away from my locker, naked as the day he was born.
And, for the record, Mr. Overly Naked Guy, naked ISN'T nice. Not on you, anyway.

Randumb

I've come a long way, I think, in the battle to just 'chill out.' A few years ago, everything would stress me out. I would get upset at traffic, lines in the super market, old people out by themselves, with no one to watch them. (I still feel very strongly about this, and hope I never become an doddering old fool.) But lately, I've learned to relax, and take life as it comes at me.
I'm proud of my progress. Part of it, I believe, has been taking the time to write down my observations about every day life, then retelling it here. I'm a cynic, through and through, but a much, much more mellow cynic.
But every now and again, I relapse back into old habits. I have found, though, that I handle the situation much, much differently. If, for example, I find myself angered at the driver of a SUV large enough that, if painted yellow, could transport an entire "Special Class" to school and back, who didn't see the light turn yellow, then red, because she was talking on her bluetooth wireless headset, and nearly ran into me, taking the turn at the appropriate time; I don't shout like I used to. In fact, I've found that over shouting, I prefer a much simpler method of conveying my dissatisfaction with the other's driving skills: the exaggerated hand gestures while mouthing the phrase "... the fuck are you doing?"
That usually works, but to ensure that the message is sent, I then stop my vehicle (when safe) and wait, staring down the poor driver, while I make sure that they understand that they made a mistake, and it inconvenienced me. It's truly fun.

The only other place I really feel any stress at all is in line at the super market or Wal-Mart. As much as I try to avoid the Peoples Republic of Walton, I will inevitably find myself in one of their mega-stores at least once a month. It's nothing I'm proud of, in fact, I am somewhat ashamed to admit it. But the fact is, if you need to buy a gallon of milk, six pair of black athletic socks, a card for your Grammy's birthday, a fish, a chainsaw and a box of condoms at 4:00 am, then there's only one place that can help you: Wal-Mart.
and the thing that I hate the most about the Evil Empire is their complete and total lack of sufficient staffing. 48 check out lanes, 3500 customers, three cashiers. You can get a pedicure, do your taxes, take an eye exam, then purchase glasses, have your picture taken, or eat a foot-long Meatball Marinara on Italian Herb and Cheese Bread, toasted with provolone and extra parmesan, all under one roof. But if you came to purchase twenty items or less and leave the store in a timely fashion, well, my friend, you have come to the wrong place.
And this is where the weird, passive/aggressive behavior comes out. I count the items of the people in front of me in the Express Lane. I watch as every single item comes out of the cart. If I'm fast enough, I'll get them all counted before they are unloaded from the cart or basket. I count every beep, as it ticks off the count of the items passing through the Express Lane.
As Wanda the 87 year old cashier recollects some must-tell anecdote about each item purchased, I put a death grip on my one item, and silently count the number of items each shopper is purchasing, knowing full well that I would never do anything if a shopper should reach 21 items.
I guess it just helps me to pass the time.