Since I work at home these days, going to the gym in the morning is one of the few times in my day when the physical presence of other people affects my wellbeing in any way. And I’ve noticed that my reactions to the behavior of others while I’m there reflect a kind of primal personality I guess I carry around with me all the time, but that doesn’t rise to the surface all that often under normal circumstances. That is, the things that happen in the gym tend to make me very aware of my reactions as being those of Me the Human and not so much Me the Meera. You know.

I’ll give you an example. There’s this thing you’re supposed to do in the weight room. When you’re done using a machine, you’re supposed to pick up one of the little spray bottles of mildly disinfectant-y water that’s sitting around the room somewhere, spritz all the surfaces of the machine you so cheerfully sweated on, and wipe them down with a little towel, also provided. Takes five seconds, you don’t give anyone MRSA, it’s all good.

Now, despite the fact that there’s a (long and rather rambling, okay, but still) sign on the wall asking you to do this (in rather small print, okay, but still), not everyone does. Obviously. Because many people are asshats. It’s really not such a big deal, though—it’s easy enough to spray the machines before you use them, too, to take care of this eventuality. And the truth is it’s only a small number of people who’re really sweaty enough for it to even matter.

Yet what happens to me when I see someone not wiping down their machine after they’ve used it is extremely visceral. My heart races a little. I can hear it thumping in my ears. My evil stare follows them around the room, and I always contemplate confronting them, but never actually do. “Contemplate” isn’t really the right word, either—”imagine” is more like it. I visualize being all calm and cool and assertive while I hand them a spray bottle and towel, with a raised eyebrow, and in my head I see them shrink away to clean in chagrin. It’s like I’m the superhero of the gym.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that the sense of outrage I experience in those moments is so basic and uncontrollable that it feels very much like a Paleolithic remnant, a powerful reaction that stems from an instance of the violation of the principle of reciprocal altruism. I can’t stand it that I’m being good to these people by following the rules and keeping them safe from germs, and they’re not doing the same thing for me. It makes me want to sweat in their general direction.

On some Saturday mornings, two particularly irritating weight-lifters go through their workout together in the lower hall, which shares a ceiling with the weight room we use. When they’re there, which thank goodness is not every week, they carry out an extraordinarily loud and obnoxious conversation that echoes up into our chamber. This too makes my heart race and thump in my ears. But on these occasions what I feel is anxiety, not anger. The conversation that reverberates up from below is not only extremely annoying, but also changed by the echoing walls so that its sound takes on an aggressive, shouting quality. It has the aural character of a fight between two tough guys, and it makes me tense and nervous. I can’t ignore it. I feel upset, even though I know they’re friends and they’re just chatting—unnecessarily loudly. There is nothing I want more than for them to be quiet so that I can feel peaceful and safe. Again I feel the rhythm of an ancient fear in my body, irrational and strong.

Good thing I only go three times a week.

Dearest nephew-boobala,

I am sorry I laughed at this photo of you.

But only a little bit, really. And afterwards I hugged my computer because I wanted to hug you so much. My computer did not appreciate it; not one bit.

Come to Chicago. The lemon tree has three open blooms for you to sniff and there are monsters on the wall that want to say hello to you.

All my love,
Aunty M.

I have a medicated face wash in my shower that is sitting upside down at the moment because it’s almost empty; every single time I look at it I think what it says on its label is “For Tropical Use.” I imagine taking a plane to Tahiti, lying on a hammock in the sun, and after a while getting up to wash my face in the South Pacific.

Hello. My brain and my typing fingers are still kind of tied up elsewhere, but I thought I’d share at least one place my writing energies have been going besides Distances Between Ports. There are others, and I’m hoping to be able to let you in on those as well in due course.

Also, clearly I’m not the only one who loves Rachel’s coat. People are going nuts commenting on it!

…but please say I’ll never have to fill out another part-year resident tax form again as long as I live.

P.S. You might have a bone to pick with TurdboTax. Before I decided to do my calculations by myself, on paper, it told me you owed me $82. If you guys talk, tell TT it can kiss my self-employed, state-hopping ass.

I am. Quite a lot. But not for blogging, clearly. I think that’s okay sometimes, especially when all the news that’s fit to print is that I like my new FTP client very much because it is a yellow duck.