Space, the Apparently Nonexistent Frontier

So I was at the pool the other day, and a woman asked me where I get my bathing suits. "Depends. Sometimes I order from Amazon, sometimes I buy from a swim-specific place."

"How much?"

"Well, I just ordered some new ones - they were on a good sale. About $45 each."

"Forty?! I paid four dollars for this," she said, holding a dripping leotard (clearly not an actual swimsuit) right in my face while I was in the shower.

Now, let's just look separately, for a moment here, at the fact that this woman was invading my shower stall with her naked body (I was wearing my suit; I shower for real when I get home) to ask me the question in the first place.

Oy.

I mean, NYC is a big object lesson in losing your personal space and freedoms in all kinds of ways, but there really ought to be a limit. And I'd like to draw mine at the door of my shower, thank you very much.

Then there is the whole other question of Getting What You Pay For. On that subject, I am about to descend into hitherto unheard-of regions of bike geekdom. Because My Goddamned Knees Hurt. Like Hell. Every fracking day, and for several days after each bike ride, no matter how careful I am, despite my new easier rear cog.

So here we go, with the discontinued obscure expensive-as-hell cranksets in impossible-to-find short lengths. Here we go with the Q-angle, and the vintage parts market, and ohmygodI'vebecomeabonafidenutcase.

But it's not for the esoteric love of vintage parts (not that there's anything wrong with the esoteric love of vintage parts, mind you). It's because, as I keep plaintively crying to Boywich on the phone at all hours of the day, "The world does not fit me!"

Waaaaaah.

Anyway, now that I've got that off my proverbial chest, I can tell you that I have knit eight whole inches of a legwarmer. Whoop de dooh.

And I have to get back to work.