Of Gym and Gymboree

She walked into the gym tired and her skin felt frazzled. Her nerves seemed just numb. She placed her dry cold hands across her forehead and temple, in an effort to blank out the days worth of crap. The project she could not finish. The snarky email from her senior associate. The demanding pitch for no reason of her partners emails. The mistake she made in telling another associate that yes she had given him the document, thus showing him up in front of others and earning his hatred for life. And then there was the snotty coughy man on the tube from whom she will probably contract bird flu. She almost retched, adding to the torturous ambience of the tube car, when she saw the phlegm go flying.

Attempting positive thought, she told her self the following: that is past and this is now, in my snug warm gym about to do something for myself and no one else...don't dwell, as she willed herself away from the days horrid events. Snug in her bubble, she focuses on breathing, to banish the tension. This is going to be good, a smile creeping in around her lips, daring her eyes to go along with the trend. She sits down in a corner almost hidden by the atrocious fake ficus plants in the gym, and begins to take off her swaddling of outerwear. And just a little later she thinks, a massive bowl full of salmon and broccoli, the ultimate detox dinner. In a way that goes beyond the pleased for yourself demarcation line that she wasn't supposed to cross, and into the smug zone, she couldn't help but feel a bit superior to everyone around her; she really knew how to treat herself.
Jacket and Lined Track bottoms nestled away, she began to rise from the bench and that is when she heard,
"could you put those in a locker?"
Her attention drawn up she looked into the eyes of this male gym trainer with an attitude enriched aussie accent. Her little bubble deflated so fast she heard a sonic boom. He was standing with his legs in a vee shape, arms not exactly crossed, and he wasn't smiling; in fact, she thought his demeanour was aggressive and sharp. If he was a girl, he would have been labelled a BITCH immediately. Perhaps he has ASSHOLE sewn in the labels of his clothes she thought. Taken aback, and taken aback that she felt taken aback, her immediate response was the look. The what the fuck are you saying to me look with a dash of are you really this stupid for some spice.
"Um (pause) What? (pause) Why can't they just go Here?" she said with equal attitude, motioning behind the ficus.
"Because people work out in this area so you shouldn't put it there. That is what lockers are for".
She continues to give him the look. No waver. One part of her mind that isn't communicating with the speech part right now has noticed that despite ass-ey attitude at no time have the word please left the offender's mouth.
" well, you can put them in the Assessment Room right there if you want", with a belligerent emphasis on the last few words.
Then, the look away. No, that’s okay. She thrust her chin out to communicate an equal amount of belligerence and non-acceptance of the request in name. She almost sighed but could be heard to swallow it as well. Her aggression couldn't be more passive. Decidedly and decorously slowly, she turned her body to the right and gathered up her things. She did so with a lingering precision, each fold and movement being a silent protest to her now clearly forced movement. She could be forced to move her things, but she refused to be forced to look at the trainer as she was doing it. Ignoring was bliss.
She got up and slowly, head straight, and hopefully without swagger (if she swaggered she knew the fates would make her trip) , walked off towards the lockers to restore her kit. Inside, she was a furious. Why is a jacket and a tracksuit behind a feaux ficas in someone's way? I always leave my kit tucked away and no one has ever said anything. This guy is new and I suppose he is just trying to play boss around me. What an attitude. And then the simple truth hit her. He never said please. What an Ass erupted from her lips and a few of the gym goers surreptitiously looked at her, because that is how you glance at a gym. No wonder I reacted so violently. He didn't even phrase his request, nay, his demand, with a polite P L E A S E. Arms horizontally yo-yo-ing furiously on the elliptical, she began to list out methods of revenge. She coordinated this with self-chastisement on her inability to be wondrously witty in the moment, ala Dorothy L Parker, instead of after, or way after, The Fact. The madder she got at herself for not issuing fabulous biting remark, the more biting those remarks became.This lasted well into the Kelly Clarke vs Ashlee Simpson MTV battle of the videos. It was as Miss Independence ended that the decision was made. Right she thought, tucking tummy in, tits and ass out, and taking long brown hair out of elastics, I reckon that trainer with attitude needs to learn a lesson. Hopping off the elliptical, she went in search of a sip of water and a can of whoop ass.