Fair warning: this one’s a grumpy old bastard post.
On occasion it is a requirement that I orbit in the vicinity of people who talk a lot. Mostly I ignore the irrelevant pieces of the constant chatterboxing (sometimes, stubbornly, I will ignore the relevant bits too). There are a few frequent offenders that seem, mysteriously, to have a voice of a particular timbre that I am unable to ignore. These people are the living worst.
They talk to make noise. Like silence for a second will remind them that we’re all going to die eventually; that maybe they will end up half-eaten by Alsatians; that nobody cares about their stupid feelings.
Let me take you by the shoulders and shake a truth into you, Chatty Cathy McChatterson: being quiet even 50% of the time will dramatically improve my quality of life and possibly even yours, as I may choose to let you live instead of greasing up the stairs and looking on faux-horrified as you tumble down them (no doubt making an awful racket). Being quiet can lead to such positive effects as Increased Productivity! Learning Things! Less Enemies!
I accept I am being an elitist asshole about this. Perhaps I should consider the implications of this from a feminist perspective: do chatty women annoy me the same way chatty men do? Are there chatty men? Does that even work as a concept? Do all things men say carry more implied weight and significance to me? Am I subconsciously more likely to listen to a man speak?
These are great questions for further discussion, especially seeing as I am apparently all for giving voices and the power to be heard to those people who are regularly silenced. For now though, for today – I just wish the chatterfolk would quit their chatter. Shhhhht. Stop talking to make all that noise please.
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.
hey you noisy bastards: everyone else here does not care about your plans for the weekend or how big your last weekend was or what so and so said about the no doubt important things that make up your life. there’s this phenomenon with humans where instead of going and getting to know hot strangers we decide to speak loudly at some poor unsuspecting person (who thinks they are playing the role of friend, but are really playing the role of something to talk loudly at), in the vicinity of the hot stranger we can see but cannot talk to because they are a stranger. we decide to speak loudly about things that we think make us sound cool, like weekend plans, and then we laugh loudly, like we have the sort of life that a hot stranger should want to be a part of. the intended outcome of this performance is that the hot stranger re-evaluates their life choices up till now, dumps their hot partner via text (“sorry, its over, i’ve fallen in love with a loud person in the library who seems to have a sense of humour and some weekend plans”) and makes themselves available to the loudest person, stat. actual reality: best you can hope for is smouldering eye contact and a small smiles exchanged over several weeks in a library setting, culminating in seeing them at the pub and perhaps saying hello. much more likely: the other people in the library hate you.