Hey spinners: I get it. I get why you’re there. Having recently bowed down to the power of RPM (or spin class, for the players at home) I do understand the weirdly addictive 5.30 starts (I hear it’s because of the endorphins; that shit is like crack).
We need to chat about an attitude adjustment when it comes to sharing toys, though. Multiple uses of the same spin bike on semi-regular occasions does not equate to possession. I understand it’s tough to break up your routine. It’s early in the morning, it’s cold, and some asshole is sitting where you wanted to sit when you walk in. Everything is topsy turvy; you don’t know your lefts or rights anymore; Christmas is ruined.
I have it on first-hand anecdote that the gym I go to is very much ‘first in, best dressed’ when it comes to gym equipment, but there’s still the sort of huffing and puffing coming from you that would passive-aggressively blow a house down. I sit wherever the fuck I want because I have decided to take this ‘best dressed’ sentiment on its merits. I thank you for not bothering me personally so far, if I have ever sat at your bike.
I concede I’m also somewhat unapproachable when psyching up for a 50 minute class of pedalling hard in the dark with a backlight on and dance hits pumping. And yes, I have noticed that first two rows of bikes are better. They just are, aren’t they?
Stay tuned for the update: To people who take my fucking bike in spin class.
I want to be the following things when I grow up:
- A paid writer who is wildly successful in some circles and held in high regard in others
- A musician who spends time away in a small studio in woods recording and releasing, with very little fanfare, landmark albums of significant brilliance with people who are just “friends from college” who also happen to be significantly brilliant and maybe a bit famous already
- An academic who is always working on some research that folks are waiting with baited breath to hear more about, but also finds time to guest lecture at like, Harvard and shit
- A consultant who flies in and sorts shit out for all sorts of businesses, so the truly awesome employees are given the space to change the world. Nice hotels and drinks in their lobby bars are required to pull this off. Some of the business are in Europe, some are in New York… heck, some of them are in Melbourne
- A homeowner with really good quality appliances that show the wear and tear of a life well lived, nice dogs with good manners and mostly reasonable breath, and housemates who sometimes cook me dinner but not so often that I feel guilty and pressured to reciprocate more than once a month.
That’s the dream, right? I’m only 29 so I do believe somewhere inside my optimistic brain that these things can happen.
Then some fucking 19 year old comes along and plays beautiful tunes and talks about them in her irish accent and I just think fuck it, I’ll be lucky enough to just know some people who have pulled off more than one of these things.
Thanks for such an uplifting thought on a Thursday, you asshole of a child prodigy.
I’m not actually going to hit you people with a rant, I just want to understand how the fuck you are managing to live your life.
Dear complete stranger from the internet,
Did you realise that every other Tinder profile I’ve looked at this evening also includes a photo of the Tinder contender (conTinder?) holding a fish they have caught?
My key issue here is one of originality. How am I supposed to know you’re the love of my life and future parent to the dogs I plan to have (one rescue, one dachshund) when you’re holding a bloody fish just like everyone else? Don’t misunderstand me and instead post a photo of you sitting on top of a wild pig you caught and killed (11 bonus minus points for posting both); that’s not going to work.
The danger for you is that one cannot help but compare the fish you caught to the fish that Peter (29, 145kms away, no common connections) caught. Peter’s fish is bigger. What’s a person to do? Adrian (33, 120 kms away, 1 common connection) seems to have caught some form of crustacean instead; does he win because he’s turning the whole fish-catching paradigm on its head, or did he not read the instructions properly?
In recent times it has occurred to me that perhaps I’m looking at this all the wrong way. It’s a drinking game: drink every time you spot a fish in a Tinder profile. Two drinks if it’s the first photo. Two drinks if the person is also wearing wrap-around sunglasses.
Two drinks if you’re increasingly sure you’re going to die alone.
hey people: seriously?
In a professional capacity, I am pretty great at stuff. Not all stuff, not every stuff, but some stuff. The stuff I care about, and even some of the stuff I don’t really care about. Mainly the former – stuff like being helpful to people and laughing at their jokes and understanding what part of the thing they’ve called or emailed me about is the real issue to be resolved.
The doing things for people thing, I do it well. Partly because it is my job but mostly because I can’t look people in the eye or the ear and be unhelpful with a clear conscience. I am very good at doing the thing.
I am telling you this, people who don’t know how good I am at stuff, because you fuckers clearly don’t know and aren’t going to tell me. Do you know how many times I’ve stopped people from crying actual tears of frustration and stress? I would ask you if you care, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that. I don’t want to hear you actually say it.
How do you think stuff gets done, exactly? Do you realise that I don’t even make known half the stuff I do because I’m the shy retiring type who doesn’t like to blow her own trumpet, MOTHERFUCKER?
WHY DON’T YOU KNOW HOW GOOD I AM AT STUFF?