Sins of the Flesh

You know what grinds my gears? The octogenarian at the gym who insists on dragging a bench out from the relative isolation between the lockers to the sinks, where he proceeds to prop up a foot and dry himself off in the main public area of the locker room. WTF? Why must we watch as he lifts burlap sacks of silly putty, that once functioned as skin, to pat his moles and skin tags dry? It's a horrifying display of equipment that hasn't functioned since Nixon was making audio mixes. So why do it there, where everyone who enters or exits the room has to bear witness?

I know, I know, I know. One day I'm going to be old and my skin is going to turn on me too. I can already see the signs in my graying hair, my relentless spare tire and the delightful melody of snaps, crackles and pops my bones make when I get out of bed in the morning. But I can guarantee that when I have mashed-potatoes for balls I'll know to stop drying my brown eye with the electric hand dryer that hangs on the wall near the door...

And that's what grinds my gears.