Never Made It To The Pool

So there I am heading into my club to swim.  I know you're expecting to hear another Seaweed Acts Like An Asshole In The Pool story but it's not to be today.  I wasn't even able to reach the pool without having to invoke Rule 17UJ: Try Not To Speak.  It seems that I get myself into all kinds of trouble when I try to speak.  I'm not saying the world would be a better place if I never spoke ever again but my world would certainly improve.

The little plastic bar code thingey which grants me club access is on the key ring to my car and I was driving SuperK's vehicle this morning.  For the longest time when this would happen the club would ask for my phone number which is linked to the photograph they took of me when I joined.  A couple of weeks ago the attendant also asked for my name - cheerfully supplied on my part with hearty bon homme - and then requested personal identification as well.  I leave my wallet secured in my car, primarily because there are signs plastered all over the lockers warning me to Absolutely Never Bring Any Valuables Into The Club.  The heading of these threatening signs shrieks: "Stop!"  It hints darkly of recent thefts.  On my first visit I actually came back out to the desk to ask if it was OK to leave valuables in a locker secured with a lock.

"It should be OK," she said.

I never like it when people use "should."  There's no oomph behind should - it's a sloppy concept, should is.  I should have a Ferrari.  I should be a millionaire.  The Cincinnati Reds should win the World Series.  See?  It's a bullshit cop-out word.  

Should: Will likely (become or do something).

I digress.  I'm talking about my assault on the club rules.  The lack of a personal ID card prompted the attendant to tell me that next time it would be required, a remark that infuriated me out of all sense of proportion to the request, but I managed to say Nothing, always my best option, as I've previously pointed out,.

Today, as I made the 20 yard trek from my car to the front door I realized I didn't have my key card again.  Instead of going back to the car to get my license I soldiered grimly on - I was on a mission from god.  The bright idea came to me that I'd simply hand the attendant - the very same attendant who had corrected me before - my wife's plastic ID thingey and hope that she didn't glance at the actual photograph.  I smile, greet the young woman, and hand my key ring across like I knew what the hell I was doing, which I definitely did not.

"This is your grocery rewards card," she said, handing it back with a smile.

I go through the routine for the ID-less.

Phone number - check.  Name - check.  Photograph - check.  ID - D-oh!

I was gearing up for this whole thing about why do you take a fucking picture and then ask for a picture ID?  This is WHY you take the picture.  Either don't take the picture or don't ask for a picture ID.  Don't do both.  There is no reason to do both.

Time in the morning: 7AM.  Serenity: Elsewhere.

"So our troubles, we think, are largely of our own making for the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn't think so."