ID, please

I lost my gym membership card on a recent Sunday. Thought I put it in the pocket of a jacket I stuffed in a gym locker before working out, but couldn't find it when I got home.

My immediate concern was having to identify myself and get a "guest pass" every time I went to the gym until I could get a new card. I understand it's a security measure, and I'm all for keeping track of who is coming and going.

What makes it annoying is I've seen pretty much the same security people every time I enter the gym the last three years. Shouldn't they know my face by now? That I'm not trouble, except for the track that I tear up regularly with my 10-to-11-minute miles?

My job requires me to go into a courthouse almost daily. A few of the guards recognize me and allow me to enter without going through the metal detector. Some of the guards recognize me but still have me put my bag on the X-ray machine, which is fine.

But one guard is different. At least once every few months we'll have this conversation before I have to pass through security.

Guard: Are you a lawyer?

Me [smiling]: No, I'm a reporter.

Guard: Oh, OK. I see you here all the time.

Really? Then why do I feel like I'm starring in Groundhog Day 2? Just let me pass through and we can both go on our way.

Whenever I got a new card, it would be my second one in less than six months. It's one of those small ones designed to fit on a key chain. At this point, you're probably thinking to yourself, "I wonder if Danny is a lawyer?" You might also be wondering why I didn't attach my card to my key chain.

Call me a purist, but I think only keys and remotes related to keys, fobs included. A key chain is a pocket puncture wound waiting to happen without cards on it; let's not add sharp-edged plastic to the equation. Plus, I fear one card will be a gateway drug to a key chain full of cards, photos, a Swiss Army knife, beer opener, and, heaven forbid, another key chain.

That I needed a new card so soon after losing an old one was also a blow to my psyche. To say I'm routine-oriented would be an understatement. Some friends and family could tell you what day of the week it is based on what I ate for dinner. Bedtime is only after I read the funny pages. I always support a point I'm making in writing with three examples.

And I either put my gym card in my jacket or gym bag when I go work out. If my system fails, then I fail, and before you know it, I'm forgetting to eat dinner altogether.

But when I finally got my new card, I realized it was a chance to start a new routine. And keeping this card in my wallet is guaranteed to work for the rest of eternity.

I was all ready to try out my new system tonight. Then, this morning, I put on a jacket and dug my hands into the pockets. My left hand pulled out my old gym card.

See? The system never fails.

Potty talk

A friend came to my house for the first time recently and needed to use the bathroom.

“Did you notice the padded toilet seat?” I asked upon her return.

“My grandmother had them,” she replied.

It’s a response I’m used to hearing. I’m known among certain friends as the guy with the padded toilet seats. (I’m also known as the guy who talks about his toilet seats. Go figure.) People laugh and tease, but never once have I heard a complaint from people who've used my bathroom.

The average person spends roughly four years sitting in the bathroom during the course of a lifetime, according to a study I just made up. I say you might as well be comfortable while you are in there. History shows I’m in select company:

• Prehistoric Times: Man develops first padded toilet seat using woolly mammoth fur. Smell eventually causes glaciers to retreat.
• 410 CE – Visigoths destroy Roman factory that is world’s leading producer of padded toilet seats. Dark Ages begin.
• 1517 – Among Martin Luther’s “Theses”: No more wooden toilet seats in church bathrooms.
  
• 1910 – White House workers add extra padding to President Taft’s Oval Office toilet seat at the same time they widen his bathtub.

So why don't more people embrace the padded toilet seat? (Figuratively, not literally, of course.) I think it's because they are shallow. The padded toilet seat can be fat and bulky, a potential eyesore in a sleek-looking, modern bathroom. It's old-fashioned and decidedly not hip.

But us pad-ites, we look beyond the superficial to what's inside. Specifically, foam. We literally value the support. We imagine that if our butts could talk, they would say, "So this is what a Snuggie feels like!"

Valuing utility over style is the same reason I keep those little bathroom cups by my sink. I want to rinse thoroughly after brushing my teeth, not wash my imaginary goatee. If humans were supposed to drink water out of cupped hands, we'd have a little more webbing between our fingers.

I know I'll probably never win these bathroom battles, but I promise to continue spreading the gospel. Maybe padded toilet seats won't lead to world peace or pare down the national debt, but try it and I guarantee you'll leave the bathroom a happier person.

Stop by my house any time. I'll leave the seat down for you.

That's what (Facebook) friends are for

I made a startling discovery this week: I have exactly 64 friends. At least, that's how many people sent me birthday wishes through Facebook.

"Friends," of course, is a broad term, particularly when it comes to social networks. My birthday greetings came from one of three types of people:

1. FRIENDS - A close friend who called and/or sent me a birthday card trying to cover all the bases
2. Friends - An acquaintance with whom I could carry on a conversation should our paths ever cross but otherwise would not keep in touch with
3. friends - People I have not spoken to in years - if I even remember speaking to them at all

It wasn't always this complicated. Back in elementary school, for example, birthday wishes came primarily from the people in my class. And that was after I brought some sort of dessert for everyone to enjoy. Except my Jehovah's Witness classmates. That's why their recruiting efforts at schools typically fail.

(This was also a time when kids did not have all of these "allergies" they have today. You got in trouble if you didn't bring in something that contained peanuts back when I was in the first grade.)

Anyways, with Facebook, I really appreciate knowing so many people took time out from their day to mark my special day. For about five seconds. Then I get resentful and angry.

The resentment comes almost immediately because I must respond to each Facebook post individually. I know some people blast out a status update thanking everyone at the end of the birthday day. That's fine...if you're lazy. To me, each Facebook message is a exclamation point-filled gift in need of a proper thank you note. So, I respond with a "Thanks!" and occasionally throw in a "Hope all is well." But this can get real old real quick, to the point where by response No. 31 I'm ready to be openly hostile:

Thanks for being so inconsiderate! Writing this is keeping me from eating birthday cake, you jerk.

Hope all is well.

The anger comes later, on February 8th. Or August 11th. Or whatever day a birthday wisher's birthday falls on. Because by wishing me happy birthday, they have without my consent entered me into an unwritten contract whereby I must reciprocate on their birthday. (Note: This is probably why I have few friends born in early January.)

With FRIENDS, I'm not that worried. Chances are, I've called, sent a card or at least a text message on their birthdays. With friends, I'm not that worried either, because my forgetting cannot ruin a birthday, only add to it. It's the Friends that concern me, especially if the next time we talk they ask about my birthday. Then, I really have to remember their birthday or else I'm now two in the hole, and my chances of digging out grow slimmer than Hosni Mubarak's of winning "Egyptian Idol."

Since it appears Facebook is here to stay, I guess this unwritten contract is, too. So I'll have to be a little more diligent in observing birthdays on Facebook.

Or I could become friends with more Jehovah's Witnesses.