Oh my …I am turning into a curmudgeon.

Showed up at the gym early. No one there but me. Good. A nice, quiet space to breathe, to be alone with my thoughts. It was not to be.

First, a woman with her annoying young daughter. An air of privilege about them, as if they owned the space, the attitude that marks my every encounter with them. Today was no different.

The first thing the mom does is talk on her cellphone at the top of her lungs. My unwilling store of knowledge about her, past and present, include her finicky travel plans, her relationships with her relations, her dinner engagements; today, the saga of her bratty daughter and her dead goldfish.

The woman strides into the space as if she owned it; proceeds to take over under the same assumption. On goes the TV to SpongeBob, the sound turned up loud. Oh, goody. Many times, bratty kid is not content with the TV pacifier and begins to pester her mom for attention, getting in the way, climbing perilously on the equipment on which her mom is working out, dragging stuff in from the other rooms and leaving it in the middle of the floor, whining incessantly.

May we have an adults-only hour? Please?

Finally, dad comes to fetch bratty kid. Mom finishes mini workout and leaves. The drama does not end.

In comes Privileged Couple. First thing the man does is tune the TV to golf, which he proceeds not to watch. From one end of the workout space to the other he struts, slamming the puny weights like a champion powerlifter. I try to focus. A dropped weight falling through the gym floor to the floor below seems a very real prospect. Perhaps along with an adults-only hour we need a no-macho-idiots hour.

Or maybe a curmudgeon hour. For that particular signup sheet, on days like today, I will be the first in line.

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