During Charleston’s Snowmaggedon, I ventured the frozen wasteland between my apartment and the small fitness center in my apartment building to do some General Physical Preparedness training, aka back, bi and abs. Earbuds in place with the volume at eardrum damaging levels, I proceeded to do a mixture of lat pulldowns, cable rows, and rear delt machine things. Between sets, I checked Facebook, roamed around the empty room and looked out upon the snow-covered parking lot, wondering if my car is broken now under the crushing weight of white powder.
At one point, my casual stroll took me to the bathroom, where I figured I’d look at my mustache. Much to my surprise, a woman was in the bathroom, doing who knows what, with the door wide open. She gave me a wide-eyed disapproving stare as if I’d invaded her privacy. I removed one earbud to say, “sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here,” to which she replied, “no worries.”
I returned post-haste to the corner of the room where the few useful machines stand awaiting some brave adventurer to put them to good use. My initial shock melted like the snow eventually will to something more like annoyance. Surely this person, upon entering the fitness room, must have seen it was occupied by yours truly. Basic bathroom etiquette certainly includes closing the door, so if anyone should have apologized, it was her. Finishing up, I donned my layers of shirts, hat and gloves and turned to leave, seeing my nemesis walking on the treadmill. Figures.
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