I am the d-bag, I am the walrus

There is nothing better, when running past the Drip or some similarly hipster populated joint, than falling flat on the pavement.  If that “pavement” consists of brokedy ass concrete, so much the better.  Road rash, it seems, is not just for cyclists anymore.  Given that those wounds are still healing and that 50 degrees and breezy is what apparently will pass for crappy weather in the next week, I decided to forgo an outdoors run in order to pump some irony at Club Dub where the welcome is always warm and the machines are usually available.

Let me tell you that the atmosphere in da club was colder than a Winky Sundae (not code for a Republican night on the town.)  I managed to work up a bit of a sweat anyway because that is my special talent.  Some are called to preach, others to prophesy.  I am called to sweat like a junior marketing staffer trying to explain “Winky” connotations to Bill Cecil Jr.  That, however, is the whole thing about Club Dub: it has a shower!  The entire point of joining was to avoid another immaculate infection.

Yet today’s visit exposed a critical flaw in plan anti-uti: the gang shower.  The gang shower was all ganged up.  No place for me towelee, and only one nozzle left for soaking.  Well, we can all get along here, right?  Here, the shower, yes.  Here, the lockers, maybe not so much.  I have to admit that I can take up every inch of my fair share of space in the locks, but I do make an attempt to respect the space.  Respect. The space.

So you can imagine my surprise when I returned to the lock box to find another pair of legs straddling my gym bag.  The various accouterments associated with those legs was spread all across the bench.  All across!  I know, right?  So I did a dance of being polite and “let’s all just get along” in my best Altamontian, winky hanging out kind of way.  My dance partner was not nearly so accommodating.

Heading to our vehicles, I grumbled internally about this affront to my property rights.  The indignity of making me dance, DANCE, to get my clothes back on.  Seeing the offender in front of my, I thought to myself, “Look at the douche-bag, there in his earth-tone chinos and fleece jacket.  Why he even wears slip on shoes.”  At about this point, I stumbled just a bit in my Merrill sport-mocs.  I spied my earth tone chinos and fleece jacket.  I considered my accouterments spread across half of Club Dub.  Once again, I had seen the douche, and he was me.