Assholes

I found a spot in the back row and pushed down the wooden auditorium style seat at my daughter's gymnastics class and settled in.  Fetching my reading glasses from my purse before tucking it under my seat and out of the way.  I ran my fingertips over the smooth, stiff cover of my new paperback and then gingerly opened it so as not to crack the binding.  I'd anticipated this moment all day long.

That's when it was ruined, by some asshole kid.

He came out of nowhere on my right hand side and instead of saying "excuse me", he hopped over my crossed legs.  (See above photographic evidence.)  And if it wasn't enough to have one 9 year old asshole kid, he was quickly followed by his 11 year old brother.   Then they proceeded to sit down next to me on my left hand side.  But only after flicking their seats up and down about a hundred times first.  After which they began playing cards with each other, before they started throwing the cards under the front row seats.   Which preceded my personal favorite,  the impromptu seated wrestling match.    

Which asshole was their parent?

When I looked around, I found their mom right away.  She was sitting in the first row on her laptop, furiously typing away messaging three different people on Facebook.  Ok, you could say I'm an asshole for reading over her shoulder, but you know you'd do the same.  Especially when she birthed two rambunctious assholes.  I mean really?  She deserved it.   Plus, she was stupid enough to sit in the front row so everyone could see what she was reading.  Which is like having a private conversation really loudly on your phone while in line at the grocery store.  Things done openly in public, cease to be private.  And doing things publicly expecting privacy solidifies your status as an asshole.  

  Assholes are everywhere.

And just when you think you've had your quota of assholes and their assholeness, that's when another one walks in.  Enter the well coiffed, mature lady who took the seat to my right.  Maybe she'd give the boys a stern glare to put them in their place, because obviously I was way too involved in my book to take care of the problem myself.   Anyone in that crowded little room could clearly see that.  But, about 30 seconds after she sat down, her old lady perfume, that she must have bathed in, caught up with her and assaulted my nose and then my throat, because I swear I could taste it.  And it tasted like pressed, antiqued embroidered table linens.  

That's when the asshole kids made their move.

To their dad, who wasn't even on my radar.  He was just sitting in the first row on the edge of his seat, elbows propped on his legs, eagerly watching his daughter spin, twirl and flip.  He didn't have the distractions of social media, a book and wasn't abusing Drakkar Noir.  At least to my knowledge on the latter,  I wasn't close enough to actually confirm that.  And here I was,  engrossed in diagnosing assholes and waiting for the ensuing drama of the shit show to watch my own daughter. 

Who's the asshole now?
I am.

ADDENDUM:   I highly recommend the book, Assholes:  A Theory by Aaron James, and who doesn't love to read about assholes? Assholes, that's who.  Don't be an asshole.