Schmancy.

I go to a fancy gym. I'll admit it. In fact, I did in an earlier blog, only this is a different and even fancier gym. I wouldn't have picked it myself, but it's what work gives me a discount on, and it's around the corner from my office - so I go.

They have good classes. I try to ignore the amazon model-like women wandering around, wondering where they put that tiny shred of emotion that crossed their faces for half a second during spin class. I try to forget that one day when I forgot my socks and they actually charged me $16 for a new pair - with a straight face. I just work out. I shower. I go back to work.

But I've been mildly disturbed today. I know, I know - today? Just today? Really, Corri?

Shut the hell up and let me finish or go write your own blog.

I was getting dressed at a locker right up against a wall. A wall that has a door. I have previously realized that this door goes to the executive locker rooms. I don't know anything about them other than that it costs extra, and there are probably ponies that take you to the eliptical trainer and you can drink a smoothie while the small Thai child you employ does your workout for you. I have no fucking idea what's in there.

All I know is that there is a contraption next to the door, and that contraption is a retinal scanner. Whatever is in there is so top secret, you can't have a key...no no. They need to scan your fucking eyeball so you can get in there, smell the laundry they did for you and wipe your brow with the nearest cleaning woman.

I'm just trying to dress and get to class before it fills up. Somehow, I managed to choose a class to like that is taught by a gay man who makes appearances on E! and various other networks from time to time, touting his fabulous...um...fitness...fabulosity. To the stars. Or something. I have no idea what he does other than ordering us to lunge right, then left, now lift the medicine ball. I digress.

As I'm dressing, I apparently got too close to the retinal scanner, and it ordered me to "please move up a little bit." It actually thought I was attempting to enter the sacred compound of executives.

This is where it's handy to know it's a retinal scan and not an olfactory one. 'Cause otherwise, it would smell the poor on me and probably punch me in the face for getting close to it.

Nothing says "I'm Important!" like an entrance blocked by DNA identification, but nothing says "Creepy" like getting dressed in front of an electronic peephole that tells you where to move.

Simple. Really?

We forget that things can be simple. And by "we," I mean "me," since I don't know that anyone else is reading this. I care not.

A friend of mine looked at me and said, "It's fucking ridiculous that you don't have an agent. But really, it's only because you haven't tried hard enough."

I was about to argue, save that I realized I couldn't. When it comes to that pursuit, and that one alone, I really haven't. She let me know just how many mailings she'd done. I have done considerably less, thinking that somehow I shouldn't have to do that many.

I never thought that consciously, mind you. But my actions spoke for me. Stupid actions.

If you want that, try harder. Do more. It really is that simple. I proceeded to have a complicated argument with a loved one later that night, made only more complicated by the addition of alcohol in my system.

I forget too often what simple means.

I need to cut that out.

This is...where I am...

I just glanced at an e-mail to one of our paralegals. I won't go into the boring details, but it was business related. They explained that they were sorry, but they no longer sold the item she was looking for.

"You may follow the link below to find lighted balloons:"

How helpful. Thank you.

A friend and co-worker just came up to me with a wrapper from her Dove chocolate. On the inside, it said, "You know what? You look good in red."

Stupid wrapper. She wasn't wearing red.

This morning at a meeting, a woman defended her choice to visit a tanning salon by saying, "Hey. Everything these days is going to give you cancer."

Since this was a health committee meeting for work, I said, "Yeah. But that's a cancer causer from way back. Kind of an OG cancer-causer."

At a previous meeting, she mentioned that there was an odd smell when she was tanning. I asked if it was cancer.

Hey, if she never would have gotten on my case for smoking while on that committee, I'd leave her alone.

I quit smoking. She's still tan.

This is all the creativity I have during the day. If I didn't fuck off at work to work on theater and career stuff, I'd be in trouble.