I used to exercise. I even enjoyed it at times – not very often – but occasionally I’d get a whiff of the endorphins and wonder, “How can I not do this every day!” Inevitably three weeks after having thought that I would trade in my spandex for soft serve and wonder if yoga pants come in plus size (they do). There are just so many other things I’d rather be doing than circling the leg machines at Planet Fitness. That has always been the case. Now with the advent of Netflix and binge watching it’s even harder to get myself off my ass and to the dreaded gym. “You can watch Netflix AT the gym!” one perky colleague said to me the other day when I was lamenting my thighs. After I contemplated throwing her down an elevator shaft, I thought – that’s like eating a gourmet meal on a moving train – at the end you will have consumed the same thing but the enjoyment factor is nil. Thanks, I’ll pass.

But I’m 46 and I feel like I am 80. I’ve started buying bigger clothes. Tying my shoes has become an event. My Fitbit has died of boredom. Something needs to be done. So where do you start? Well Google, of course! Duh.

“How to start exercising when you’re a big lazy fatass”

“What stretches are good for chronic laziness?”

“How little exercise can I do to start feeling less like Jabba the Hut?”

I say I am lazy – but it really only applies to exercise. Ask me to re-organize the kitchen – I am there! Bake 12 dozen cookies from scratch – no problem! Clean out the garage – done! But get on the elliptical? I’d rather chew cracked glass.

I don’t even want to put on my sports bra – if I had one that is. I tossed them all the last time I cleaned out my dresser – the rule is if you haven’t worn it in a year – out it goes, right? I can’t bring myself to get rid of the plethora of coats that don’t fit me anymore but those sports bras went out without so much as a Fare thee well! Priorities.

The kick in the ass is – I know how to do this. I know how to eat right. I know how to exercise. I’ve read the books. I’ve watched the videos. I’ve cut fat. I’ve cut carbs. I’ve counted calories. I’ve fasted both extensively and intermittently. I’ve aerobisized, and Barre’d, and ellipticalled and yoga’d. It all sucks. At the end of the day – you eat less than you burn and your ass gets smaller. Exercise helps – but should be used more to make you more flexible and stronger – but diet is 80% of weight loss and that’s the end of the story. It’s just not a story you want to hear in a world where Market Basket lemon donuts exist.

So baby steps… I took the long way to work this morning instead of the shortcut. I walked around the floor every time I had to pee – which was often because I am drinking water like it’s my job to empty the Quabbin. My lunch had 4 servings of fruit and veggies. I had my co-worker take me for a walk this afternoon. I’ve kept my post-Halloween candy consumption to a manageable 2 Almond Joys and a Peppermint Patty. And hubs and I will take the puppy for a long walk after our sensible dinner.

My failures in the past have come from too much too fast and not being able to sustain it. I’m slower in a lot of ways these days so my approach to getting my ass back into my jeans needs to be that way too.

Here’s to building steady momentum. And avoiding the bakery.

 

 

 

I remember being in the fifth grade. 1983, Catholic school, plaid jumpers, navy blue knees socks. I was 10 and already starting to thicken towards puberty. The jumper fit me poorly, restraining budding breasts and providing little coverage for my soon to be ample hips and backside. This was before I had any idea what a train-wreck my reproductive organs were to become – but that is a story for another day. I was just hoping to get my period and be like all the other girls in their ill-fitting jumpers.  They separated the boys from the girls one afternoon. They took us to a little anteroom near the gym and showed us a short movie. This was the early 80s – there was a film projector and a pull down screen like a giant stained window shade and a bunch of uncomfortable metal folding chairs laid out in neat rows. There were about 12-15 of us corralled into that room. Most of us had been thrown together since kindergarten and we were happy that something had interrupted the mundane routine of fifth grade. The film wasn’t graphic. It was poorly animated and sterile, made in the 60s or 70s. It used proper, clinical words for our parts – cervix, vagina, labia. Some of us giggled. Some just stared. They gave us handbooks too – just as sterile and technical. Little brochures of what was to come, “Welcome to Menstruation! Population = You!” It took about an hour. I remember someone crying and running to the girls room the teachers rushing in to calm her down. I just took it all in. My mom wasn’t one to talk about such things but I was a reader and precocious so I knew the whys and wherefores of the dreaded “curse” or “Aunt Flo(w).” I got it. You got your period if you didn’t get pregnant. It was nature’s way of telling you your womb still had a vacancy sign on it. At 22 that is a relief; at 10 it was like saying this is what will happen if Rick Springfield doesn’t take you to McDonald’s every 4th Saturday. I knew Rick wasn’t coming – so I also knew I was doomed to deal with this every month. Sometime in the spring of 1984 it reared its ugly head. I distinctly remember it being a Monday night because my mom stayed home from bowling so she could buy me some Kotex and put a wet rag on my forehead. The pad feeling like a diaper notwithstanding, I was fine. I told my friends. I carried a conspicuous Jordache purse to school for the next few days to hold my pads, but other than that it was pretty humdrum.  A few months later, summer rolled around. It was the last day of school and I was having friends over to celebrate another plaid jumpered year in the books. I had my “friend” and I wanted to go swimming. We had an above ground pool in the back yard and I regularly swam til my fingers pruned and my hair was a chlorine matted orangey mess. “NO”, mom said. “You can’t bleed in the pool. You can’t wear a pad in the pool.”  I was not about to sit on the deck and watch my friends cavorting in My pool and playing Marco Polo without me! I was no fool. I had been in the Feminine Hygiene aisle of CVS. I knew there were tampons. Thanks to Judy Blume and Glamour magazine I also knew that I could go in the pool if I used them. And I knew my mother had some. There were always 2 in her purse, in a baby blue plastic case right next to the Big Red gum and a half eaten Fifth Avenue bar. (Who eats half a candy bar?) “Can I use a tampon?” I asked matter of factly. She just stared. It was as if I’d asked her if I could get a tattoo of a penis on my face. “Ma?” What she said next was probably the first time I realized my mother was mildly off her rocker. Hers was a subtle psychosis – it manifested slowly but steadily over the years – but it was definitely there. “No, you can’t use a tampon! You’re a virgin!” My first instinct was to say, “Are you sure?” but I figured that wouldn’t get me any closer to my cool blue chlorinated paradise. So I opted for, “What does that have to do with it?” If Google had existed in 1983 you would have found “Can a virgin use a tampon?” in my search history, along with “Does Tommy Howell have a girlfriend?” and “Do Members Only jackets come in purple?” I had done my research. I read that foolish pamphlet cover to cover. I had also found a book in the library detailing the ins and outs of teen menstruation. Virgin and tampon user are not mutually exclusive. No one in history has ever lost her virginity to a Tampax slender regular.  Back to my mom. Her face was about to split open and fire was about to shoot from her eyes, but she had no comeback.  She begrudgingly showed me her Tampax stash under the bathroom sink and she waited outside the door while I inserted. I followed the directions in the box – foot on the toilet and everything. I had no issues. I put on my swimsuit and bounded into the yard. Later that night I informed my mother we would need more Tampax – because pool or no pool I was never wearing a pad again and with the exception of after pregnancy and a few surgical procedures I never did. To my mother’s great relief, my hymen stayed intact… for a few more years anyway.

The MBTA hasn’t changed much in the 20+ years I’ve been its captive/customer. The cars are a little shinier but are essentially the same as the ones from the 80s minus some fabric and padding on the seats. Who thought it was a good idea to use woven fabric and absorbent foam on seats that are regularly sweated, urinated and vomited on? You definitely want something that can be hosed down on the regular – certainly not something that retains stains and odors. But I digress… One innovation I’m particularly fond of  is the electronic tracking system that shows when the next train (and the one after) will arrive. There’s even an app that will show you the next 4-5 trains’ arrival times. It’s remarkably accurate. I’ve spent entirely too much time standing on the platform either sweating or freezing wondering when or if the next train would arrive and when it did would I be able to wedge myself into a space among the great unwashed. Now I just look up and see it’s 3 minutes til the next train and go back to mentally berating people for bad behavior and writing future blog posts about them. Apparently, not everyone finds the same comfort in the system. Today after avoiding the Jehovah’s Witnesses stationed outside Beachmont  (more on that later) I entered the station behind a crazed and sweaty young man. He seemed frantic to get through the turnstile. The sign showed a Bowdoin train was approaching – which gives you at least a couple of minutes to get up to the platform. While trying to get out his T-pass he managed to drop his phone, his lunch bag, his sunglasses and said T-pass is rapid succession. He bent down and slipped – his skater shoes giving him no traction on the slick tile. He tried to get purchase but just kept sliding, reminiscent of Jack Tripper trying to hide from Mr. Furley at the Regal Beagle. Once he stopped slipping he then couldn’t get the pass up off the floor – it had that vaporlock that only very thin fingernails or a stiletto will break. From his demeanor, he seemed a nail-biter and there were no knives to be had. He kept slapping at it and grunting but just couldn’t lift it. After what seemed an eon but was really only about 15 seconds he got the T-pass up and kicked the other items through the turnstile. The train was now “arriving” which still gives you about 45 seconds to a full minute to get to it. The guy scrambled to pick up his other items and launched himself up the escalator at a pace Usain Bolt would admire. He missed the train. I know this because when I got to the platform maybe a minute later he was pacing and muttering to himself in a way that made me think he missed a dosage as well as a train this morning. Literally two minutes later, another Blue Line rumbled in. I made sure not to get on his car because I attract enough crazy people without seeking them out. As luck would have it (my luck, not good luck) he got off at Aquarium as I did. Still crazed, he almost knocked over a bunch of pre-schoolers and their teacher as he bolted up the stairs and out of sight. Now I have to wonder – where the hell was he going that 120 seconds made that much of a difference? Does he get lashed with a cat-o-nine-tails for every minute he’s late? Is he a tester at the vodka and blow up doll factory? Is it oral sex day at the plant and if you’re late you have to give instead of receive? Whatever it was I hope he made it – and I’m really glad I’m working from home the next two days.

It’s raining. It’s been raining for weeks now. Right now outside my window there are sheets of rain falling. The sky is gunmetal grey. And I wouldn’t be surprised to see Elmira Gulch ride by on her bicycle. I know the sun peeked out a little over the weekend but I was mostly inside dealing with my overfilled mucus membranes (see last post for details) so I can’t be sure it wasn’t a Dayquil induced hallucination. But Boston is starting to look like Tim Burton’s version of Gotham City and with all due respect to Vicky Vale and Commissioner Gordon – no one wants that. I know very soon it will be hot and sticky and the sun worshipers will be in their glory. I know everyone is complaining how we never get a spring around here. But I’m OK with grey and cool – I just want to know when we should start building the Ark?

I’m not complaining. I’m not one to complain about cool wet weather. I hate the heat. I would have a hard time choosing between my darling husband and air conditioning in my car. I hate being sweaty. I want it to be 60 degrees forever. Day, night, morning afternoon, evening. And no humidity – like ever. Humidity is a cruel joke the devil played on curly haired women. In Boston in July there isn’t enough product in Sephora’s warehouses to keep my hair tamed. I end up looking like Little Orphan Annie’s haggard long lost mother. I want to like the summer – I really do. I was born in July so I should be a beach baby but there’s nothing I hate more than sand in my shoes and salt water in my hair.  I love the look of the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing, the smell of the sea air. But I’m not going in it – or probably even near it. I’ll be just fine here on the beach wall – thanks. I envy the summer lovers – with their sleeveless tops and flip-flops and sundresses. None of these things look good on me. I’d show off my bare ass before my bare upper arms. Flip flops give me a back ache and make a sound so annoying I actually sent one of my employees home for wearing them once. And sundresses just say chafed thighs to me. I always thought I’d probably like summer if I were thinner. But I’ve been thinner and I still hated the heat. The size of my thighs has no effect on my frizz-prone hair on a scorcher in August. Being skinny doesn’t help the smell in the subway when it’s pushing 90 and the guy next to you hasn’t bathed since there was snow on the ground.

But the summer is short – there will be fall clothes in the stores before the 4th of July fireworks are over. Football will be back on TV. And I’ll be spending a small fortune on school supplies again. In the mean time – I’ll start gathering animals – it’s like herding cats around here most of the time anyway.

I found an allen wrench in my purse today. I know I used an allen wrench to put the patio furniture together on Sunday – but my purse was in the house at the time. I don’t need the allen wrench – we have three sets of them in the house and when you keep one it that comes with whatever you’re putting together it only ever fits that one thing. So unless you are a compulsive nut-job who not only keeps spare allen wrenches but also labels them – there’s no need or reason to keep an allen wrench. But I digress… I was searching for my daytime cold medicine in my purse when I found the allen wrench. I have cold – or really bad allergies – or the plague – I haven’t quite figured it out yet. Bottom line: I feel lousy. The daytime cold medicine helps a little – it keeps my runny nose stifled and allows me to have clear enough thoughts to function. I didn’t buy the daytime cold medicine – my husband did. It came in a package that had day and night liqui-gels. Daytime is orange – like the sun! Nighttime is a swampy blue black that looks like every drowning nightmare I’ve ever had. I don’t like the diurnal/nocturnal split of cold medicine. I inevitably end up with too many nighttime doses because I never get up in the middle of the night to take another dose once I’m asleep. But I chew through the daytime doses like it’s my job. I tell him – just get cold medicine that is time agnostic. Or buy just the daytime stuff. 24 years we’ve been together and we will have the same discussion.

Him: The day stuff will keep you up all night.

Me: No it won’t – it’s not speed.

Him: Then what makes it for day?

Me: Did you really think there was speed in them? The nighttime stuff has diphenhydramine in it. The nighttime stuff makes you sleepy – the daytime stuff doesn’t. We have enough benedryl to tranquilize a pack of direwolves – I’ll just take some of that if I need to sleep.

Him: Oh…

Every. Damn.Time.

Why don’t I just buy my own cold medicine you ask? Well the short answer is…I do. I usually keep it stocked. The problem is I am the only one who shops proactively. So when someone else in the house gets sick – I will proffer up the cold medicine and they will use it up and not replace it. Then I get sick – and there’s not a zinc tablet or a Hall’s lozenge to be had. And since I will fight being sick until I am almost bleeding out my eyes – by the time I need the medicine I am too sick to go get it. He’s a good husband – he goes for me – but he buys the dreaded combo pack for the nine hundredth time. I could build a diorama of King’s Landing with all the leftover nighttime liqui-pills we have running around in our bathroom closet.

Ever take a nighttime pill during the day? I don’t recommend it. Last time I did that I closed the door to my office so I could “rest” for a few minutes. I woke up three hours later with my face in a puddle of drool on my desk and one of my employees knocking on the door asking if I were alive. I think I had a post it note stuck in my hair as well. Not pretty.

Anybody need an allen wrench?

It’s prom night in my home town. I only know this because of Facebook. I have a love/hate relationship with the behemoth of social media. Some things I thoroughly enjoy – catching up with old friends, seeing pictures of their children, getting inspiration for craft or house projects, ranting about my commute. Other things I really hate – political posts top that list, followed by all the ads and click bait, then the duck faced selfies from people old enough to know better. Today I am enjoying it – seeing pictures of daughters and sons, nieces and nephews getting ready for the prom – it’s really a treat to get a glimpse at the preparations. Later I am sure I will see the finished products and all the smiles of these young beauties heading off to have some fun. This is the best of FB and in my opinion the only way it should be used. Show me the good things in life – your kids getting ready for the prom and your newly painted sunroom. Show me your dog chewing on a shoe – or your cat drinking from your cereal bowl (actually that was me). Tell me when you’re having surgery and want my good wishes. Tell me when you’ve lost someone and you need my prayers or a shoulder. Post your wedding pictures, your newborn daughter, the dinner you cooked last night. Tell me when there’s a good sale at Macy’s, or there’s a concert coming up. Tell me when it’s your birthday, your anniversary. Post pics from the 80s when you had big hair.  I love all these things and I love you a little more when you post them.

Back to the prom… it got me thinking about my prom date from dear Lord, 27 years ago. He wasn’t a boyfriend, just a friend of my cousin’s who looked good in a tux, danced with me a few times and was tall enough to not be blocked out by my wall of hair in the picture. We’d lost touch after college, I wondered what he was up to so I went in search of him. Though I am still rather FB inept – I found him pretty quickly despite his common name. I was about to send the friend request when I noticed he shares quite a bit publicly. I scrolled…there were a couple of Bruins game shout-outs but almost every post was politically charged. And he posted every day, sometimes more than once a day. I sighed and closed out of his page and went on with my day. It was a little sad, but what I don’t want to see every day is someone else’s very strong opinions on whatever political brouhaha is currently boiling over. If you know me, you know my political leanings. And I can tell you, anyone who feels strongly or even moderately about their politics is not going to be swayed by a FB post. I have only been on FB since last July so I can’t speak to the previous election cycles but here we are almost 7 months later and people are still posting like it happened yesterday. And no matter what side of the fence you’re on – if every third post is about politics – you need to get over yourself and the election. Here’s the cold hard truth – no one cares what you think about politics. No one cares what I think about politics. Political beliefs are a very personal thing – and mindless, obnoxious, venomous posts and especially reposts of someone else’s venomous opinions – are not going to make anyone change their way of thinking. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I was a Republican. I’m almost 45 years old. I read a lot. I stay current on the news. I know what I believe and that aligns almost exclusively to the right. That’s me. My opinion. My beliefs. My upbringing. My values. You might be my polar opposite politically – but I can still like you, love you, respect you or just have a normal conversation with you. What I can’t do is change your mind – nor do I really want to. You came to your beliefs I assume the same way I did – and if that’s your opinion – that’s great. Nothing I can do or say is going to change the way you see the world. And nothing you say or do is going to change the way I see it either. Every time you post your political opinion – what you are really saying is, “I’m right; you’re wrong. What I believe is good; what you believe is bad. You should think like me.” This country was founded by people who didn’t want to be forced to do or believe in anything. Somewhere along the line that got lost. Now all most people want is an echo chamber and a bunch of bobbleheads agreeing with whatever they say. If that’s your belief so be it. But guess what? I don’t have to be subjected to it. I have unfollowed and unfriended quite a few people over the last several months. On both sides of the political spectrum I might add. Not because I was offended or didn’t agree with them but because they had become tedious and boring. So if I haven’t commented or liked anything in awhile – that’s why. I’m sure I’ve missed some of the good things you’ve posted and that’s too bad for me. But until they come up with a way to filter off the politics I will err on the side of caution and just not read any of it. I look at FB to be entertained and if you aren’t giving me at least a chuckle now and then – what good are you? If I want to read about politics I know where to go – newsflash – it’s not FB. It’s a complete waste of energy to post politically charged items there. If you’re that passionate – put down your smartphone and go do something that might actually make a difference. In the mean time, if you find yourself no longer privy to my vastly entertaining train rants and cat pictures it’s because you are no longer bringing anything to the table, I’m not here at your convenience and you were the weakest leak – good-bye!

That’s not to say you can’t EVER post anything political – once in while if something really speaks to you – sure why not? That’s part of who you are and if I like you I accept that. Just follow it up with some Rubix cube solving videos or your vacation pics. And if this offends you in any way shape or form – here’s the good news – you don’t have to listen to me either.

It’s a rare day when my commute doesn’t provide me with some form of entertainment. Some days it’s the nitwits who don’t know how to park in front of my house and leave their monstrous SUVs idling while they walk their kids into school. I know I live across the street from the Middle School so walking my kid to school would be totally obnoxious. But these are, at the very least, 6th graders. Do they really need their hands held for the 30 yard walk from the car to the door? Maybe I’m just a bad mother. But I digress… Next comes the ride to the train station. Usually, my 80 year old mother drives me. It begins with a slow back up out of the garage in her 2004 Nissan Sentra that has 38K miles on it. “Should I buy a new car? I really want a deep red one.” she asks me. “No. You’re car is fine. It has no miles on it, it stays in the garage, it will outlive us all.” So will my mother. Then comes a deep sigh as she looks at the neighbor’s lawn. It’s strewn with crap and usually has weeds growing three feet high. Bad lawn care is a worse offense than drug addiction to my mother. Backing up into the street is always an adventure. I think there is a subliminal message in the tar that says “SPEED UP” because someone inevitably swerves around us as she’s trying to turn onto the road. We usually get to the train station unscathed. I go to Beachmont because Orient Heights is always an overcrowded shitshow. Mom drops me on the corner near Torretta’s bakery. The crossing guard for the elementary school knows us on sight and waves at us every day, “Good Morning, Girls!” I get out and wait for the light to cross the street. I’m a jay walker by nature but this intersection has too many options for me to get killed so I wait for the walk signal and even then cautiously make my way to Dunkin Donuts. Today found me waiting on the sidewalk a bit longer than usual. It was a little later in the morning – our friendly crossing guard had already packed up his reflective orange vest and gone home and the cars were sparse. A black late model non descript Honda pulled out of the D&D parking lot and wanted to take a left to head towards the beach or go left again to RT 16. There’s a small island in the middle of Bennington street so the Honda had to maneuver around that to get to the light. At that exact moment a white, enormous SUV came flying to the light – which was red – the walk signal was on but I wasn’t about to step off the curb. The SUV was driven by a youngish woman – hair in a ponytail wearing a yellow sweatshirt and big sunglasses. She screeched to a stop millimeters from the nose of the black Honda that had not quite made the turn and whose rear end was blocking the lane going the other way. There were no other cars around. The guy in the Honda looked over at the girl in the SUV – she leaned on the horn and revved her engine.  Seriously, she revved her engine – where are we at Thunder Road racing for pinks? He was obviously yelling at her but I couldn’t hear the words until there was a very plaintive – FUCK YOU! –  followed by double middle fingers. She, not to be outdone, returned the gesture and they were at a stalemate. She tried to back up to get some room to go around him but another equally large SUV had pulled up behind her. Honda boy couldn’t pull forward into the lane without gouging his passenger side on the nose of the white SUV. The light turned green and traffic started to flow in the opposite direction and a few cars moved into the lane closer to me. These 2 idiots sat there making nasty gestures and yelling expletives at each other for a solid minute until finally she got some room and backed up to let him out. He flipped her off once more for good measure and roared through the light taking the left onto Winthrop Ave. She flew after him trying to get in front of him and they almost collided in front of Beachmont Roast Beef. I lost sight of them after that but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she is still chasing after him to get in that last middle finger or possibly ram his bumper and push him to a fiery death off the edge of Route 1. The light turned red again. I made my way across to the train station and headed to work puzzled. I don’t drive aggressively. I don’t care when other people are annoyed by my relatively slow driving. I’m never in that much of a hurry to get anywhere. I wonder what these people have to contend with that makes them so ferocious about who gets to go first. Had the lady in the SUV not sped up to get to a (RED) light the Honda would have made his turn and this encounter never would have happened. I would not have been quite so entertained but other than that no harm no foul. Was her car going to explode if she didn’t maintain a steady speed of 22 mph? Was she en route to dismantle an incendiary device? Judging from the way she was dressed I think it was more like she was late for Hot Yoga and was going to get stuck in the back of the class too far away from Johann the hot instructor from Norway. Anyway, the blue line was mercifully quiet this morning. I think God truly only gives us as much as we can handle.

Have people forgotten how to walk on city streets? I’m about 5 minutes away from buying a Supersoaker and filling it with Welch’s Grape Juice just to deter people from stopping short in the middle of the sidewalk. (Why Welch’s Grape Juice? Because as anyone who grew up in Massachusetts knows it’s frigging impossible to get it out of clothing and carpet and curtains.) I know I work in Boston, and I also know it’s a tourist destination but these people aren’t visiting from the far reaches of the Outback where there are no streets let alone sidewalks. How do I know? Because they don’t sell selfie sticks in the Outback and every one of these assholes has one. Last evening I was walking to the train station. It was a nice night so I decided to avoid the 7th circle of Hell, i.e. The Green Line and walk to Government Center. As I was making my way around the Boston Common on Tremont Street I noticed a line of people waiting to get into the movie theater. Maybe 30 people. It was a Tuesday so I am not sure what they were waiting to see but it was hardly a spectacle to see 30 folks milling around on the sidewalk on a nice fall evening. A young couple started crossing the street on the diagonal from the movie theater side of Tremont to the park side. The woman (mid to late 20s, trendy dress and shoes completely unsuitable for sightseeing) walked into the street without checking for cars, her head turned completely over her shoulder looking at the folks in front of the theater. Her companion (same age but much more appropriately dressed) was already firmly planted on the sidewalk while she was literally stopped short in the middle lane pointing and asking him, “what’s going on? what are they waiting for?” I was about 20 yards away and could hear her plainly. He started yelling at her to get out of the street as an MBTA bus was starting to travel towards her at an alarming speed. She managed to meander her way onto the edge of the sidewalk just as the bus flew past, her head still at an angle reminiscent of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, and still pointing and exclaiming about the modest line of people in front of the theater like it was a 4 alarm fire roaring out of control. I was moving quickly down the sidewalk taking in the scene and expecting idiocy. I would not be disappointed. I had headphones on listening AC/DC  but still very aware of my surroundings and still able to hear her onslaught of questions to guy who presumably knew less about it than she did and most certainly cared not at all. I was about to sidestep around her when she decided to step away from the curb – without turning her head, mind you. I was beginning to think it was stuck permanently in that position like an some overused Barbie Doll after a bad night in the Dream House. She slammed into me so forcefully and with such surprise (to her, not me) her giant phone and the ubiquitous selfie stick went flying and landed on the other side of the little wrought fence that separates the park from the sidewalk. She finally turned her head forward and looked at me like I was an alien lifeform who mysteriously beamed down into her personal space. She then ran to the fence to retrieve her phone. Even the $80 pink Otterbox could not save her iPhone. Its screen, reflecting the overcast cast sky, looked like the mangled tinfoil from an old school Hershey bar.  She immediately began wailing about it. She didn’t apologize to me, or even say excuse me.Her boyfriend looked at me apologetically but just shrugged and went to comfort her. I stood there for a second, mourning the death of good manners and politeness, turned up Angus Young and said in my best Irish Whisper, “Fucking tourists.”