The other night I was working out in my apartment when the landlady in my life, Mrs. Esther, came jaunting up the hallway stairs and burst into my apartment. Jaunting is probably the wrong verb; Mrs. Esther smokes two packs a day and the last time she jaunted anywhere is probably when they made her do track and field in gym class during the 1920's. And even then, she probably had to stop for a cigarette break between hurdles. Okay, Esther didn't technically burst in, she just stood in the doorway lecturing me about the evils of exercise. Apparently, I was disturbing the downstairs neighbors during my jumping jacks. She kept droning on and on and on. It was like my blog. I felt like I was eleven years old again, listening to my drunk mom lecture me about using sidewalk chalk on the neighbors driveway. So what if Mrs. Goldstein had pictures of boobies all over her driveway? It's called a welcome home gift!
Anyway, there I was in my short-shorts and 6th grade "Jaguars Reach For The Top" tee-shirt performing calisthenics when Esther bombed my apartment. She was screaming, "You can't do that!". I said, "Can't do what?". She replied, "You can't do THAT!". She was crazy and she kept on screaming, "You can't do that". And then she ran into my knife. She ran into my knife ten times! That part didn't happen. But, I wish I had had a knife because at that very moment I seriously considered stabbing her. I had actually just stocked up the day before on bleach. I had used a $.50 off coupon at Target. I could stab her and clean up the body for $1.39. The people in the building and probably the police and social security would throw me a congratulatory party. I would in fact earn a medal for doing service to the community. These are the terrible thoughts that ran through my head while she was yelling at me. I'm not a violent person but, at that very moment, in my head, I was tracing a chalk outline around her body.
Esther berated me for a good ten minutes and told me that jumping jacks were unacceptable and that I was bothering the Millers, the neighbors below me. I exclaimed it was 7:30 p.m. on a Friday. I wasn't tap dancing, I wasn't blaring music, I was doing jumping jacks in the privacy of my own home. She told me I was no longer allowed to work out in my apartment. I told her that she needed to stop working out in her apartment. She said, "I don't", and I screamed, "I can tell!"
She told me that I had to go outside on the street or go down to the pool patio. Yes, she actually suggested I do P90X on the pool patio. Is she on drugs? I can't imagine that freak show .That's just what I need on you tube. You know the neighbors would be filming that shit. I know I would. My skinny ass in short shorts by the malaria-laced swimming pool doing P90x jumps with a Liza Minnelli mix CD playing as background music. You'd be surprised how well "All That Jazz" goes with sequential front-side lunges. I'm not above embarrassing myself for a bit of comedy, but P90x at the pool in front of my entire building is crossing a line. Not to mention, being the hottest person by far in my building, I don't want to intimidate anyone.
Esther actually told me Rose Miller thought she was having an earthquake. Really? She thought it was an earthquake? Did she think there was an earthquake every day for the past 365 days when I was working out? This must be a new type an earthquake. An "above ground" earthquake. One that happens only in your ceiling and only around 7 p.m. Monday through Saturday. She should check in with the local geologist about that one. What an idiot. Esther also yelled at me for taking up ten minutes of her time arguing about my workout routine. This, coming from the woman who last week stopped me in the hallway and lectured me for twenty minutes because my roommate got stuck in the elevator and she thought he did it on purpose to get attention.
After yelling back and forth for ten minutes I took a breath and told her I would go talk to the neighbors myself. She looked at me through her thick, black glasses and said blankly, "What's that gonna do?". Esther apparently thought I was going to downstairs to negotiate with North Korea.
Let me explain.
The Millers have lived in the building since the 70's. They are very sweet and very old and they have a dog that should be put down. Yet, I marched down there to play nice and sweet talk them. Despite all my bitter quips and snarky sass, I think that by just talking to people like human beings and telling them the truth, you'll usually get positive results. Naturally I told the Millers I had hemophilia and exercise was the only cure. Sure enough they agreed to let me continue on my journey of fat burning, personal torture and disappointment. A little honesty and kindness sometime goes a long way.
I am now giving Esther the silent treatment. It's been a glorious few days. I can't wait to see her again so I can not talk to her. It will be the highlight of my week, possibly my month.
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