An Open Letter To The Freaky Locker Room Lady:

Wow. Anger issues, much?

See, here's the thing. If you have such issues with personal space, may I suggest that Sunday morning may not be the best time to go to the gym?

Yeah, I know that there were already two other ladies near you as you were getting yourself put back together to leave. But you see, I rent that little locker right in the middle of the mix. As in, I pay extra money to keep my stuff there.

Seeing that it was already busy in that little stretch of valuable real estate, I tried to be quick about stuffing my coat and bag into a daily locker. I then opened my rental locker in order to show you and the other ladies why I chose to insert myself into an already busy place. I grabbed my workout clothes and went to the end of the bench in an effort to allow a bit more elbow room.

Boy, you got huffy! Muttering, "every single time... every. single. time." Yeah, whatever, that's the joke in the locker room, Princess Sourpuss. No matter where you stash your stuff, the entire locker room will be empty and fifteen people will cluster around your locker. It happens to all of us. Every Single Time.

So while I thought your self-important muttering was weird, I didn't take it personally. Hell, I didn't really take much notice of it at all. I thought it was odd that, while wearing just jeans and a bra with your hair still wrapped in a towel, that you angrily grabbed the rest of your gear and coat from your locker and slammed the door shut. I even shrugged off your venomous, "excuse me" and said a pleasant "sure" as I leaned out of your way. But your reasons were clarified when you put everything down on the next bench over and used that vanity.

And after that, I didn't give you a single thought at all. And I really didn't imagine that you would give me a single thought either. After all, it was Sunday morning. I was meeting my close buddy Lucy for a workout and chat. What could go wrong?

Except your sanity.

You see, I stashed my clunky hiking shoes and thick wooly socks under the bench because they were wet. You did notice that people do that, right? Stash their boots and mucky shoes under the benches? We do that so that the daily lockers don't get all slushy and gross.

So imagine how I scratched my head when I came back from a lovely workout and chat to find my outdoor shoes and socks tossed on top of the locker unit. I mean, seriously, is this a joke? Or does your medication just need an adjustment?

I pushed the bench over to the lockers and easily plucked out my shoes. However, I couldn't see over the ledge into the well where the lights are to see if my socks were there. So I showered and got dressed, looking carefully through my stuff to see if perhaps I didn't remember putting them in either locker.

Nope. Not there. So out I went... in my barefeet... to the front desk. Where I told them about your brain spasm. Congratulations -- they think you're a freak-job, too! A nice gal brought one of the tall bar-chairs from the lobby into the locker room, climbed up, peeked over the ledge and kindly retrieved my nice warm socks.

Every other woman in the locker room pretty much said, "are you kidding me? seriously? what is she? nine years old?"

I informed them that no, you are not nine years old. In fact, you are tall and skinny with big boobs and long blonde hair. So clearly, anyone can see the problem you would have with me.

Huh????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

(in fact, based on your detailed description, a few ladies in the locker room wondered if perhaps the tips were low at your pole the previous night, thus leading to your crabbiness)

And so I leave you, Sister Skanks-A-Lot, with these thoughts:

1. If you have such problems with personal space: a.) use one of the private dressing rooms b.) do not work out on Sunday mornings or c.) work out in one of the many soybean fields in Illinois.

2. I have described you. So I have to think that any real problems that the world has thrown at your skinny, self-important, self-righteous ass are at least somewhat likely the result of your own doing. You think you have problems? Go rent a documentary on the Lost Boys of Sudan. Then tell me what problems you have in one of the nicer gyms in Chicago on a Sunday morning.

3. Be grateful that my friends and I are bigger people that you are. We have had a delerious couple of days laughing hysterically at your pettiness. And then the people sitting next to us and overhearing our laughter couldn't help but wonder at how small your world must be, too. I have, however, enjoyed hearing various ideas about how to reciprocate:
a. take your shoes, soak them in a sink, then put them back under the bench
b. take your shoes, throw them into a shower, turn on the shower, leave the door open, walk away
c. peel the backs off of a few pantiliners and stuff them into your shoes before soaking them. let you figure out if they are new or not.
d. take your shoes out of the locker room completely, put them into the lost and found box in the kids' care facility until they are dontated to charity. the likeliness of a charitable donation would refrain me from slipping any surprises into them.

4. If I still feel like it, if I haven't fully let go of my matronly need to smack the manners into you that your mother did not, I may actually print off a much shorter, more business-like version of this letter. I may get up bright and early next Sunday morning -- after all, you were leaving as I was arriving -- and tape up a few copies onto each and every mirror.

5. Finally, maybe I won't do anything. Maybe you having to be you is punishment enough for one lifetime.

Either way, do not touch my stuff ever again.