Whatta Maroon

Bugs Bunny used to use the phrase "What a maroon" often to describe morons. Bugs Bunny is a pretty funny guy. Today, I felt like a maroon on many occasions. The F in TGIF was really big today, and very pronounced. I somehow had no energy, too much nervous energy, too much silence, and I kept putting my foot in my mouth and stepping in it. And then putting my foot back in my mouth. Then falling on my ass because my feet were in my mouth.

This week has gone ahead and beaten me down, but in more of a mind game sort of way. Like, I didn't anticipate it's moves, but this week really made me fight to get out of check mate quite a few times. And in my evasion, I only built the pathways to my own downfall. Poetic work out there, week. You've won. My crown touches wood in defeat.

The topper for me came at the hands of what I must assume to be middle school girls, perhaps the cruelest and most vicious creatures on God's earth aside from wolverines (they hunt for sport) and actual sociopaths (not good).

I went swimming this evening at a local community pool. The adult practice is preceded by a middle school practice. The transition in the locker room between the two practices involves a lot of the word "like," a lot of shrieking (ungodly, unnecessary shrieking), and a lot of catty, petty, ridiculous, but obviously important, extracurricular social assessment. Even though I'm sure I must have been that horrid, I honestly do not remember being that horrid. And having no concept of my body, voice, or space in social constructs governing human interaction. Sure! Walk right in front of me! Sure, flail your arms while talking about what Tyler said in math class while blocking the only exit. Why not take a twenty minute shower with your friends where you're not even naked and are very much only getting your hair wetter than it already was in the pool. I mean, ten people are waiting, but hey! Go for it. You've got a lot of surmising to do. There IS a dance coming up.

Perhaps such lack of sympathy has caught up with me in the karmic sense. I arrived at the pool in a frenzy of excess energy - thrilled to be released from the defeat the week had just handed me, and pumped up by Air Supply, whose cd had allowed me to breathe again, spiritually at least. I had to hurry. I was wearing a bulky sweater. My shoes could be classified as "brogans." This stuff was not all going to fit in my bag. I opted to use one of the four rows of lockers of varying sizes to store my clothing, and just take my bag and swim crap with me to the poolside.
Super.

Well, my goggles broke and I was a discombobulated mess all practice long, which - whatever, there are worse fates. Like returning to the locker room to find the locker where you left your clothes EMPTY. (Yes, I had used a locker without a lock. I'm a fool).

I was glad I had packed the bigger towel. Especially since it appeared I was going to be driving home toga style. I enlisted the help of friends in my frenzy - "I think someone stole my stuff. Like, my pants, my shirt, my sweater, my shoes, my underwear...my clothes." While this was a hilarious notion, we all could agree on that, I was still furious at the prospect. These were crappy clothes. I kept rechecking a 3 locker radius of the one in which I'd left my stuff. Livid. Who does that??? I was certain it was middle school.

Then, one of the friends who was busy opening every locker on the row asked, "Are these your clothes?"
Sweet relief. There was my stuff, balled in a pile.
However, relief was soon replaced with fury. At least the theft option appealed to my sense of the possibilities that someone either needed clothing badly, was a kleptomaniac, or thought the clothes could fulfill a need somehow. When I realized the clothes had just been moved to trick me into thinking my clothes had been stolen and incite my panic, I became even more pissed off. Who DOES that?!! Who plays nasty tricks for the sake of being cruel?
Middle school girls.
Yes.
Middle school girls.

I was so mad. I wanted revenge. I came up with the idea of leaving a turd in clothing that was just decoy clothing for them to move. Jokes on you! That's a turd you've got now, not just my underoos!

Is that akin to middle school prankness? Yes. Does it seem horrendous? Yes. I was appalled at the thought myself. But somehow, after a roller coaster week of a sort, I wanted it to happen. Just so I could say, "Doesn't doing mean shit for no reason infuriate you on a human and intellectual level???"
But I don't think middle school girls work that way. And I hope I don't.

Oh well. TGIF at last.