I wasn’t in the best of moods.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning, after the shittiest of shitty winters, and instead of hanging out at my house sipping coffee with my wife, I was heading into work to see a troublesome client and work through a mound of papers.
When I reached Birmingham on Southfield Road, I was overwhelmed by the amount of exercise buffs out and about.
The most bountiful and easiest to notice group is the Birmingham Mom Brigade. These are 35-45 year olds wearing the uniform of the day: brightly trimmed running shoes, footies just above the shoe top, skin tight black yoga pants, a sweat wicking shirt in a color to match the trim of the shoe and a light black track jacket adorned with the brand name of the shoe being worn.
This mom is running with perfect form. Her hair is tied into some sort of ponytail, swinging back and forth like a manic metronome. A trace of her ear buds can be seen. Sweating will not be allowed. Pushing a stroller of single or double width or leading a dog or dogs on a leash is welcome. If a PTA meeting materialized at the next street corner, she would be good to go without so much as a snicker about her appearance from one of her neighbors.
The next category of exercisers irritating me was the men. These 45-55 year old Country Club Members have short hair, freshly shaved Saturday morning faces and matching nylon track suits. Forget about the splashes of color, this event is black suit only. Again, the form is perfect. The pace may be quicker, the hair might get slightly matted with perspiration (not sweat, for God sake), but being disheveled is frowned upon.
Why are the men exercisers slightly older than their female counterparts? I believe the 35-45 year old men are busy working Saturdays, pushing useless piles of paper around and trying to figure new ways of bilking without making anything or providing a service. It must takes a good ten years of showing the CEO what a hard charger you are to earn a better quality of paper for your business card and get Saturdays off. Meanwhile, the wives of these useless piles of shit are stay at home types working to instill intolerant conservative views in little Kyle and Bree.
The third group is a bit harder to describe. They are the men and women in the Hard Core Bicycle Platoon. Like football players, it is hard to actually see these pedaling fools. Their skin tight tops are adorned with Italian tire companies, the ass of their pants is lumpy with prostate padding, their heads are crowned with tapered aerodynamic helmets, sunglasses hide the eyes.
Make no mistake about it, these people own the road. It does not matter if it is a side street or busy thoroughfare, if the light is red or green, this is their time and their world. Stay the fuck out of the way. These saddle riding dim bulbs also wear the wrist bands telling the world that Lance did nothing wrong.
As I watched these three groups bustle about the streets of Birmingham, my desire to point my car onto the sidewalk and send them scattering like well coiffed bowling pins was great. I figured that talking to the police about my actions would only slow my return home, so I resisted the urge.
Once home, I noticed that the Downriver Exerciser was out also, but in a much different manner.
Downriver is fatter, both sexes. We struggle more with our form: heads wag, tongues loll, sweat pours. We look rattier: shoes are unkempt, shorts are the no-brand Target variety, a hoodie is the top of the day. Also, there are just less of us out and about. We nod or stop to talk along the route, exercise being more of an opportunity to get out of the house and bullshit with neighbors than a manic activity to stay thin.
The urge to drive a car into the Downriver Exerciser is almost nil.
Later, I will explain the differences inside a Birmingham house and one Downriver. Should be an explosive expose’.
Cheers! Jim
