Going to the gym is a real treat for me. That, or just a flat out horror show. Between the people who basically live there, color-coordinating their shoe and Lisa Frank clothing color scheme, the floating torso bros who have no regard for their lower bodies...
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| "All day, everyday, BRO." |
....and the people who just have flat out terrible, or downright wrong, form...
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| KILLIN' IT, BRO. |
...my regular trips to the gym is just an absolute buffet of judgement. I could argue with you that judging people is my job...isn’t it? We just call it “critique” or “feedback.” But nothing brings me more joy than just people-watching. Whether it be “slamming-your-weights-is-the-exclamation-point-of-your-set guy” or girl who wears lifting gloves to do crunches. Also, let me go on record and say “kipping” is dumb.
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| Almost... |
The ability to take in a scene and point out something in attempt at humor is something I love, be it at a mall or watching college football on TV. Is it in attempt to cover up my own deficiencies? Probably. I will say though, that I am my own biggest critic, and I frequently interject self depreciating humor here and there. So if you ever wondered “I hope nobody notices (insert noun here),” my answer is “yes...and it’s awful.” On the other hand, if you've wondered “I hope everyone notices (insert noun here),” my answer is “yes...and you’re awful.”
Is it cruel or mean? I guess so. But sometimes you have a moment in which your judgments turn downright hilarious. Enter: George…
George burst into the resource/intervention room in the morning as he usually did, weaving through a crowd of adolescents in attempt to place his backpack and coat in the appropriate space, and to inform me of his lunch choice. I had been in the room for a minute or two, talking to a few teachers about the usual topics. It was a Friday, and we were decked out in our finest denim slacks. Now, let me tell you I am not a jean snob whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I have ever paid more than $20 for a pair. The irony I see is the more ripped, tattered, and weathered the jeans look, the more expensive they are. Hey! These jeans look like they were found in a rail-yard! How much? $85? SOLD! How bout the ones that were run over by a lawnmower? JUST TAKE MY MONEY!
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| Jeans: where less is more! |
In contrast, you can find yourself a pair of Bret Favre penis-jeans for like $12. Made with the finest,1-inch-thick, Kevlar quality denim. Well, one of our intervention specialists, Mr. Lipton wore one of these pairs of terror-resistant jeans. They were box-y, high waisted, and wonderful.
As students filed in, I took notice and commented “sweet mom jeans.” Mr. Lipton just pursed his lips, and shook his head, seemingly calling me an asshole in a non-verbal, teacher friendly way.
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| Former Governor and registered sex-symbol, Mitt Romney |
It didn't take long until George made his daily salutations, in which he greeted every single teacher and aide there...all except one.
“Good morning Miss Knight!”
“Good morning, George,” the intervention specialist responded.
“Good morning Mr. Kluwe!”
“Good morning, George,” said the intervention aide.
“Good morning Mr. W!”
“Good morning, George.”
“What’s for lunch today?”
“Pepperoni pizza.”
“I’m having pepperoni pizza!”
“You got it boss.”
“Did you bring your protein bar?”
“I sure did.”
“Did you bring a protein bar with marshmallows?”
“Not this one. This one is ‘Blueberry Crisp’.”
George then clapped in excitement at the thought of me eating a Blueberry Crisp protein bar, and began to make his way to his work area, leaving the group. Being the only teacher who was not greeted, Mr. Lipton was left unfulfilled. Not only had he just been personally insulted by me, he was downright ignored by George.
“George! You’re not even gonna say good morning to me?!”
“Good morning, Mr. Lipton!” George said, as if he hadn't missed a beat.
“No, I don’t want your good morning,” Mr. Lipton said in a playful, bitter tone.
Again, George was (is) autistic, so he wouldn't get Mr. Lipton’s humorous, faux outrage retort. Either way, George was willing to bury the proverbial hatchet by paying Mr. Lipton a compliment after a pause: “I like your mom-jeans!”
Again, Mr. Lipton pursed his lips and nodded his head. He looked at George for a moment, then to me offering me a hateful gaze, then back to George. After a moment of silently nodding and considering his reply, Mr. Lipton simply said “thank you, George.”
George, again, clapped in excitement and returned to his work space. I then had to return to my work space...But not before needing to change my now urine-soaked jeans.
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