Okay, so you remember how much I love the track, right? Well, while at the track this morning, the top of my head nearly came off.
Pardon me, while I rant this out.
It was 97 degrees at 9am. On the track was my oldest son, me, a few older women walking the outside lanes, and a Super Jock doing 100’s on the inside lane.
Enter: Pains in My Ass. (four teenage girls)
The girls are walking in a row, a la Reservoir Dogs, iPods blaring, in the inside lanes.
Oh. Em. Gee.
I will discuss religion with you. I will chat about our differences in political views with a smile. I will even ponder veganism. I will never ever ever ever ever ever ever get over people walking incorrectly on the track. Never. Ever.
So. The Super Jock comes from the back side of the track at what is probably a 65/400 pace (to be read “hauling serious ass”), and here come the girls.
Giggling. Chatting. Wearing shorts that were panties in a former life. On the inside lanes. Right where Super Jock is headed. And he has the right of way. And they aren’t moving. And this is where I…
a) watched in horror as the Super Jock left foot prints on the backs of the girls
b) watched in horror as the Super Jock had to break his stride and go around the girls
c) politely reminded the girls of track etiquette
d) none of the above.
What I did: waved at the girls, gaining their fickle attention, and used my Wish I Was a Drill Instructor Voice to tell them to get out of the way because WALKERS USE THE OUTSIDE LANES AND THEY BETTER MOVE BEFORE THEY GET SOMEONE HURT.
They moved. The Super Jock whooshed past, nodding in my direction (I think…he was pretty blurry). The girls called me a bad name. I informed them that they could call me whatever they liked, but the fact remained that the Rules of The Track are simple and finite and they’d best learn them.
…and then I said something that made me sound so frickin’ old…
“This isn’t the mall, sweetheart. People come to the track to work.”
Again: Oh. Em. Gee.
Anyway, ….there it is. My morning at the track. And as the girls walked away, still mumbling and giggling and calling me names, and the Super Jock took his marbles and went home, and the older ladies kept walking in the outside lanes (because they’d obviously taken the time to respect the track), I played tag with my son. On the infield. And then taught him about Track Etiquette and stupid girls who willfully break the rules.
And then my son rolled his eyes at me. …I can’t say that I blame him.
When you’ve finished rolling your eyes at me, please don’t forget to enter my “Hip Girl’s” giveaway! …I promise not to yell at you in Gunnery Sergeant Hartman manner…unless you like that sort of thing. In which case, “TAKE YOUR TIME, SWEETHEART.”