I'll show you my power, Bitch

I've had this sort of weird, pinching pain in my abdomen for most of the day today, and what bothers me most about it is that I can't decide if it's from the kickboxing class I attended yesterday or if it can be attributed to any of the food products of questionable origin that I ingest on a regular basis. I'm pulling for the kickboxing explanation, but really you just never know.

The kickboxing class is a new addition to my routine. My gym canceled the Bosu class a while ago, leaving me with nothing to do with my Tuesday lunch hours but see what conniving schemes Sami and Chelsea are up to while I pump away on the Elliptical for a half hour or so. Recently, however, they've added a mid-day kickboxing class to the schedule, so I decided to check it out. It's been one of those "sore in muscles I didn't know I had" sort of experiments, which I think is probably a good thing overall. What's surprised me, however, is my response to the instruction style of this particular class. Our leader in this kickboxing endeavor seems to think that the best way to get us pumped and energized is to focus our efforts as though we have an actual enemy in mind. "WHERE ARE THOSE STRONG ARMS!?!" she shouts. "GET HIM!! HE'S RIGHT THERE! SHOW HIM YOUR POWER!!" she commands. A few months ago, I might perhaps have had a specific target in mind, ready to pummel my imaginary foe with all the strength in my girly biceps. Now, however? I don't know what's up with me, but I'm somehow in this Zen state of "Life's good, man; why you gotta rain on my parade?" I roll my eyes at the imaginary antagonism she invokes, thinking, "OK, fine; I'll give it all I've got. But I don't really need to punch anyone in the face to get me moving." Honestly, I think Eat Pray Love has something to do with it. Despite how long that book's been in my sidebar, I am digging it beyond any in recent memory. It's inspiring in so many ways, and letting go of all that nags at me is only one of the many things it's been teaching me.

I don't mean to imply that I'm pure and good and unshakable in all ways, however. Rest assured that my resident passive-aggressive surly streak is still well intact, without a doubt. Case in point? The parking lot at said aforementioned gym. On busy days, all spots in the gym's lot are occupied by suburbanites' SUVs and minivans and the occasional sensible vehicle or two. When this happens, the logical solution is to overflow into the adjacent clinic lot, a mere 30 feet plus a grass-covered median away from the gym's own and proper spots. The decidedly lazy among my fellow gym patrons, however, have decided that 30 extra feet is simply too much too endure, and thus, they park their cars in the no-man's land that is the brief connecting strip between the two lots instead.

During the winter months, when snowbanks presented even more of an obstacle between these two locales, the gym planted orange warning cones, designating the in-between space as a "Do not park here" zone. Now that the snow has melted and the sun in shining, however, it seems we are on our own.

I cannot explain why it irritates me so severely to see someone parked in the non-space between these two lots. Sure, it makes traversing the area a bit more difficult, as my visibility is impaired somewhat. But it's not exactly a high-traffic zone, so it really shouldn't affect me so adamantly. I think it's just the principle of the matter. I am a goody-goody and a rule-follower, after all, particularly when the rules mean minimal inconvenience on my part. To park in a properly marked and legal spot means walking a mere 30 feet beyond your expected path. Considering these people are at the gym, presumably to work out, should this really be such an inexcusable inconvenience in any way?

So the other day, when I saw a rude lazy-ass in that non-spot between the two lots, I decided someone really needed to be put in their place. I scrawled a note on the memo pad I keep in my glove compartment, fully intending to place it beneath a windshield wiper as my stern reprimand...



I fully intended to place this note on the offender's windshield... but then I saw a surly teenager coming towards me as a witness... and I noticed the mock-chainlink license plate frame and the barbed wire screenprinted seat covers inside the offending car... and suddenly I remembered that I am one part vigilante justice-seeker and three parts 'fraidy-cat chicken-shit. So I folded the note into my pocket, destined for no end-point other than my new Birthday Scanner, through which I can share my timid passive aggression with the Internets instead.

If the illegally parked lazy-ass happens to be among the microscopically small part of the Twin Cities population reading my blog, however? Then consider yourself warned, motherfucker.

There. I feel better now. Really I do.