A Spot Too Far

I had an “Old Man Yells at Cloud” moment yesterday (thanks, Alf, for reminding me of that).  I was leaving the gym after work yesterday.  Given the time of day, the place was pretty crowded.  I went to pull out of my parking space, and I was blocked in by some joker sitting there with his turn signal on waiting to take my space.  I had to wait for him to back out of my way before I could leave.  There were several empty spaces further down the lane, but apparently there was something special about mine, and this guy had to have it.

OK.  Let me get this straight.  You’re going to the gym, presumably to work out.  As in “engage in physical activity for the purpose of increasing one’s fitness.”

So why the hell are you worried about how far you have to walk from your damn car?!?

What, are you in danger of pulling a hamstring if you have to walk a few extra car lengths?  Do you have no short term memory and therefore might forget where you parked your car if it’s not a short distance away?  Is there some cosmic game of which I’m unaware in which whoever walks the shortest distance from their car in their lifetime wins another go-around or something?  ‘Cause if so, well, I haven’t been playing right.

So I drove off and this guy got his justly deserved reward — me yelling at him impotently as I drove away.  Oh yeah, and my parking space. 

He probably hopped on the treadmill closest to the door too.

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