Three Minutes won't Kill you...then again, you're old, maybe it will.

Dear Old people at the gym,



I see you standing outside the room, pacing like old, feeble cheetahs. Your gold wristwatches scream  one minute to eleven, and we're still doing our work out. The nerve! This is not the first time we've been a minute or two late, but this time your patience has warn as thin as your hair. You've been pushed around enough. This is the last time you will make it home for your daily chicken noodle soup ten minutes past noon. It's an outrage!  Your sallow skin grows warm and almost turns flesh colored. Your breathing accelerates. Your anger mounts. "Let's swarm them!" Someone calls out. Probably the eighty year old woman that can hardly walk wearing her nicest chino slacks and polo blouse. And, are those earrings and pearls? This is a work out, right?

 I recognize that your time is precious. Probably more precious than mine. After all, I only have five children that go to three different schools, two businesses, a husband, a dog, a fish, and a hamster and a  house and three cars that need tending to. I totally understand your plight. You are nearly dead and there's only four more hours to get your workout in and to your early bird buffet before you call it a day. You're busy, I get it. There's lunch at noon and bingo at two. And who can skip lunch? I can't, can you? Especially when you've got medication to take and your bowels don't work after six pm. I'm nearly there myself, so believe me when I say, I get it. But in having empathy for your shortening time on earth and your OCD type desire to be punctual, can I offer a thought? Just something to consider? I know it may be a generations gap thing, but I might have something to offer you. My thought...

It's only three minutes. Three minutes is all it is. Think about it. Three minutes is how long it takes you to buckle your seat belt, or walk up the stairs at the gym. I know because I usually get stuck behind you. Three minutes is how long it takes you to  decide that it's finally safe to turn left. Again, I know because I'm usually behind you as you slowly creep onto the busy road and I have to slam on my brakes to wait for you. You seldom acknowledge me as you roll your giant Cadillac into oncoming traffic. I'm not sure if you even realize that you now have at least a half a dozen cars lined up behind you. And when I have to wait for you to cross the road and watch your little legs toddle to and fro when I'm in a hurry, I have to remind myself that it's only three minutes. And three minutes won't kill anybody. Then again...

One other thing. Perhaps, as wise as you are now that your nearly a centurion, you might realize that being rude will not help you get into heaven any faster, and at your age, I'd like to think that being kind and looking to understand that maybe there was a legitimate reason why we were late, would be your number one goal, seeing as how you will be meeting your maker any day. Swarming a class and yelling at it's participants is shallow and insulting. Unlike a fine wine, class is something that doesn't just come with age. I saw that today. I hope that you still have enough time to find you some. Because you were right about one thing. Time is precious, and yours is running out.

You're welcome, and have a nice day.