That Guy

By Mike Nettleton

 At some time or another, we’ve all encountered “that guy.” And, because I’m an equal opportunity ranter, let me point out “that guy” is often a woman. You know who I’m talking about, right?

“That guy” is always perched on the last weight machine at the gym. The one you need to complete your workout before heading for a soothing and well-deserved shower. He sits staring into space, as if trying to puzzle out how he arrived there and what he intends to do next. His eyes meet yours and he nods, then continues his existential questioning. A minute passes, two, three, stretching now into five. Dripping with sweat, with your brain shrieking “please God, strike me dead on the spot,” you consider asking him if he’s going to actually move the weights from their resting position, but finally give up, towel off, and slink away to find hot water. 

Later, defying all odds, you encounter “that guy” again at the supermarket. Or, perhaps it’s a different “that guy” wearing the disguise of a 50 something heavy- set woman who’s standing behind her cart in the soup and rice aisle as you turn the corner and try to enter. Spotting you, she immediately swivels her cart to the diagonal, bends at the waist and finds fascination with a row of chicken stock on the lowest shelf. “That guy’s” (gal’s?) rear end bobs up and down, to and fro, hither and yon to punctuate his (her) efforts. The aisle couldn’t be any more blocked if someone had backed a semi with two trailers in, shut down the engine, pulled out the keys and left the building. If there was a shower in the store, you’d be toweling off and heading for it now. Later, you cross paths with “that guy” in the 10 items or less checkout. He’s pushing through two crammed carts while burying the clerk in a waterfall of expired coupons and trying to cash a 4-party out of state check.

The most dangerous place to encounter “that guy” is behind the wheel of an automobile. “That guy” is the one in the left lane, driving 15 miles-per-hour under the speed limit while the right lane is clogged with a tightly-packed never ending stream of cars. “That guy” has a lifelong love affair with his left turn signal, employing it several dozen streets before turning left, turning right, or going straight through the intersection. 

It pays to be alert when spotting “that guy” approaching a stop sign on the cross street just ahead of you. Your “that guy” Spidey sense will tingle. You’ll glance again to see “that guy” (again a random sexual assignment), texting, singing at the top of his lungs while demonstrating “jazz hands,” blow drying his hair, eating a meatball sub, or examining the polish on her (his?) toenails. Worst case scenario: “that guy” will be involved in all of these behaviors simultaneously. There’s not a chance in hell “that guy” will even consider his brake pedal as he careens across in front of you.

“That guy” is the one who camped his monster SUV cattywhumpus across two slots in the crowded shopping center parking lot. “That guy” is nearly as dangerous in the role of pedestrian, ducking out from behind a parked car to skitter across the street in front of you, then scowling when you have to go into a screeching skid to avoid turning him into a flesh and blood hood ornament.

“That guy” can also be a telemarketer who tries to convince you he’s a close personal friend while phonetically stumbling through  your last name, rendering it unrecognizable.

“That guy” walks her drooling mega-dog through the neighborhood, sauntering away from the steaming mega-load the beast has dumped on the street. “That guy” fires up his lawn mower at 6AM on the only morning you can sleep in. “That guy” never lets facts get in the way of his own loudly-expressed opinion.

Here’s the most sobering thing about the whole “that guy” phenomenon. At some time or another, in the eyes of other people, all of us will take a turn being “that guy.”

Oops, time to go. I just noticed my left turn signal’s been on all the way through this blog.

You know who you are. Or maybe you don’t.

 

Carolyn J. Rose

A few weeks ago I spotted an article about one airline cracking down on the size and amount of carry-on luggage.

Thank you!

It’s about time!

Those of us who check our bags and abide by the restrictions are fed up with watching others flaunt the rules. We’re tired of watching you try to wedge cases the size of young hippos into the bins above our heads. We’re tired of you squishing our backpacks and satchels in the process. We’re tired of you moving our things to inconvenient bins to make room for your excess. And we’re tired of not getting as much as a shrug of apology.

I’d say you all know who you are, but the fact is that many of you probably don’t. You’re too oblivious or selfish or entitled to notice your own behavior—or to care about the effect it has on others.

You’re the same people who halt your cart in the center of a supermarket aisle to have a phone conversation in an outdoor voice. You’re the ones who park straddling two spaces and abandon your grocery cart in a third. You’re the people in line with twelve items more than the posted limit. You’re the ones who don’t get out your wallet until everything is tallied and sacked. Then, without a glance at those waiting, you dig for a coin purse, pour out a collection of nickels and pennies, and count them. Slowly, of course.

You’re the folks who back out of your driveways without looking, zigzag across lap lanes at the swimming pool, never bus your table at a food court, and toss litter along the highway. You’re the folks who walk your dogs by my house every day and don’t bother to scoop up the poop.

If any of this is describes you, isn’t it time you got a clue? Or got your own planet?