Smooth Jazz Guy was back in the gym yesterday.
As a refresher, he’s the guy in my building who has his trainer turn on the deadly Smooth Jazz Channel on the TV, at top volume.
Well, guess what – yesterday, I beat him! I was in the gym first, and had already turned on the TV to my favorite workout watching. (Bravo. Duh.)
When he came in and saw Millionaire Matchmaker on the screen, and heard Patty Stanger screeching “I didn’t say you had to finger her, I said to kiss her!” over the sound of my elliptical machine?
The look on his face was priceless.
OK, there was no look on his face.
I smiled politely — or, maybe like a smug asshole — when he entered the room, and he didn’t acknowledge my existence. Not even when he hopped on the elliptical right next to mine.
And then, the fun ended, because I spent the rest of my workout having variations on this fight in my head:
HIM: Since you’re not really watching that, do you mind if we change the channel to Smooth Jazz?
ME: I DO mind. Sorry. I am watching it, I just look down at my phone during the commercials. Especially the ones for kitty litter, since I don’t have a cat.
HIM: Well, there’s a policy that we check with the other occupants of the gym to see if they mind the TV being on.
ME: Oh IS there. Interesting, you never checked with me all those times YOU turned it on, and I was already mid-workout. You weren’t even here first.
HIM: That’s because I was just turning on music. It doesn’t count as TV. Whereas the sound of this programming is rather offensive. It’s hard to work out to.
TRAINER: Hey there, sorry I’m late. I’ll set up.
ME: Really? My show is hard to work out to? That’s funny. Because your Smooth Jazz slows my heart rate down to *just this side* of full cardiac arrest. Instead of pushing it during the Arm Blaster phase, which is what real music would help me do, I float above myself, watching doctors try to revive me, and see my dead grandma, grandpa, and Cairn terrier beckoning to me on the other side, asking for a Milk Bone biscuit. All of them, they all want a biscuit. No, wait, Grandpa wants some good deli, and Grandma has a yen for those terrible, time-softened hard candies she kept in a bowl for guests. The pineapple ones nobody wants. I’m coming, Grandma and Grandpa I was never that close to! I’m coming, Cinnamon! I’m going into the light! THAT’S what your Smooth Jazz does.
TRAINER: When your heart rate’s up, Jim, hop off and come do ten of your favorites: burpees. [WINKS]
HIM: I’ve been in this building for 20 years and no one’s ever complained about my music choice.
ME: That’s because everyone else in this building is either deaf, or passive aggressive like me. Believe me, they’re all having this same argument with you in their heads.
HIM: Or writing about it on their blogs? That’s right. Don’t think I haven’t sent a link to the co-op board.
ME: Gasp. You wouldn’t!
HIM: Oh, that’s right. You’ll be out of here faster than you can say “notice of eviction.”
ME: I was being sarcastic. I don’t believe for a second that you know how to copy and paste a link into an email. I bet you don’t even know how to read my blog. You think you have to “log on.” You’re just bluffing. Does bluffing make you grunt? Because you’re a grunter. Anyone ever point that out? I wonder, what’s the co-op board’s position on loud, disgusting grunting? Time Warner should put you in the lineup and call it the Loud Grunt Channel. Starring you, grunting lively covers of Kenny G’s greatest hits.
TRAINER: I’m going to switch things up today! Brought some stretchy bands to make things fun.
HIM: Look, your show just ended. That seems like an appropriate moment to switch the channel.
ME: Nope, I’m really looking forward to Real Housewives of Atlanta.
HIM: Now who’s bluffing? That’s the one you don’t watch, and everyone knows it. Name one Atlanta housewife.
HIM: You win. I will sell my apartment and find some other community to terrorize with my Smooth Jazz and Loud Grunts.
ME: You’re trying to make me feel bad. But I don’t. At all.
TRAINER: What’s that? No more Smooth Jazz?
Trainer begins a slow clap. We hear others joining in. Camera reveals the whole building is now in the gym, clapping and cheering and chanting, “BEL-GRAY. BEL-GRAY. BEL-GRAY.” Smooth Jazz Guy melts into a puddle like the Wicked Witch, except it’s a puddle of sweat, which someone will be responsible for cleaning up with the disinfectant and paper towels provided on the table by the gym entrance.
By a little-known building by-law, we are now the owners of Smooth Jazz Guy’s apartment, which, though decorated in expectedly terrible, “you’d think this was owned by a 24-year-old Chase Bank associate” taste, is easy to fix up and has a terrace.
What imaginary fights have you had lately?
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