It was really cool the way you stomped and sighed and went waaaay past “Baby With An Earache” on the fussy scale this evening, all because you thought I was monopolizing the pullup bar at the Y.  Everyone could tell that you had Somewhere to be, like a film premiere or polo match or the Tidy Cat sale at Food Lion and—obviously—you were in such a hurry to Do Important Things that you couldn’t be bothered to remove your sunglasses in the weight room. Or to waste time closing your mouth when you chewed that hunk of Dentyne Ice.

Yes, I ignored you—and I’m sorry—but I’m so relieved that you showed me the error of my ways, wordlessly shoving past me so you could almost hoist your Ed Hardy-encased torso above that piece of wall-mounted metal.

Three times.

That’s such a cute coincidence, because I did it three times too.

Three sets.

Of ten.

If you don’t want to wait your turn tomorrow, perhaps you should try the assisted pullup machine.

In the Womens’ Locker Room.

Chances are, you’ll have it all to yourself.