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.