Today was a Stairmaster day. The gym had a bunch of new mags, which I greedily gathered up before heading over to the Stairmaster to read all about Angelina Jolie's dark secrets and Jennifer Anniston's unfortunate botox incident.
Scarred from my last encounter with Ziege Lady I let each magazine drop VERY carefully as I finished them and they landed in a neat little pile next to my Stairmaster.
Toward the end of my workout a pleasant looking woman came over and inquired politely if she could take one of my magazines.
'Sure, take 'em all,' I said. 'I'm done.'
She knelt down and. . . I guess the word is 'rifled'. . . through my neat stack of magazines, selecting several. When she was finished my nice pile looked like a cat had scrabbled in it trying to bury its poo. Without bothering to restack them, she headed for her own machine.
Two seconds later Ziege Lady walked by, eyed my explosion of magazines with disapproval, and CLICKED HER TONGUE at me.
She did not, however, call me Ziege.
I think she's starting to like me.