Let's talk for a moment about courtesy.

Our mothers all taught us the basics about courtesy -- to say please and thank you, to not talk with our mouths full and to not stare at people who look different.

The average person can pull off some semblance of courtesy for the most part. It's a rare person who is just horridly rude, spitting food everywhere and yelling at a waiter for more lemons for his water. We don't encounter too many of those people.

Most people can say please, or at least have a polite tone, when they want something. At the very least, they don't sneer or roll their eyes.

But when a cell phone rings, all rules of courtesy are completely null and void.

I am continuously amazed at how typically polite people go completely into jerk mode as soon as a cell phone vibrates.

I know this has happened to everyone. You are with a friend or colleague, walking along, and his cell phone rings. One second he is semi-engaged in conversation with you. The next second he has completely forgotten you are standing there. After digging in his pants pocket for his phone that is playing an obnoxious song (unbelieveably loudly for no apparent reason), he fumbles and nearly drops it, but finally he flips it open, silences the music and out of breath answers, "Hello? hello? HEYYYY! How's it going! Yeah I can talk. Go ahead. Hello? Can you hear me? Really? You did that? And she said that? That's hilarious! HAHAHAHA!"

At this point, there is no reason for you to continue to stand beside him. You could suddenly start to do a monkey polka dance wearing clown shoes and a mermaid tail and he would have no idea. He has entered Cell Phone Land.

He also has no memory of the previous five minutes you were speaking to him prior to his cell phone ringing. Nevermind that you had just been talking about work he should do to get that promotion, or that he had just promised to bake two dozen cookies for the company party.

Bad cell phone behavior comes in many forms.

I am always amused when a person holds up that one finger to silence me when I attempt to sneak in a few words myself while he or she is on the phone. I'm trying to tell you that you are about to step into a giant puddle of hydrochloric acid, but it is rude to interrupt you while you are on the phone. Sorry about that.

Another aspect of Cell Phone Land is the undeniable volume level of cell phones. Most people I know always have their phones in close proximity -- in their hands, on their ears, in their pockets or purses. Ready to answer lightning-quick as soon as it rings. If that is the case, why turn up the volume so loud? Does your ringtone double as your entertainment? Do you only get to hear the Black Eyed Peas' "Imma Be" when your buddies call you? If I am your involuntary audience, at least let me hear an entire verse of a song five times, instead of "Imma be...im..." each time a text message comes in. This is a plea from a person who values quiet and peace as much as courtesy: If you anticipate several texts in a row, please turn down your ringer.

What is also interesting about Cell Phone Land inhabitants is how they disregard how much the person on the other end of the call can hear. Most current cell phones have excellent sound pickup, and this is great -- and horrifying. Think about the most private times of your day -- showering? Using the bathroom? Singing loudly in the car to the Spice Girls? Your callers could potentially be sharing all of that with you. Most of my friends, at least, are either unusually tolerant or polite to address it with me if I have ever put one of them in that position. But I have been in that position many times. In my time on the phone with friends, I have heard a few toilets flush, which is a zero-tolerance situation for me.

At work I am consistently amazed and simultaneously annoyed when a customer calls and seems to have no regard (or no knowledge) of what comes through the phone line. More than once I have had to ask a person to turn down music so I can hear what he or she is telling me. More than once I have answered a call from a person calling on a landline, and I had to ask the person to silence her cell phone ringing so I could listen to what she was asking for. She seemed genuinely baffled that I was bothered by her obnoxious "feelin' groovy" ringtone playing incessantly.

Just today I picked up the phone and had this conversation:

Caller: Hi, I was "plink" wondering if you could "plink" tell me how I could "plink plink" get a press release "plink" published in your "plink" newspaper.
Me: Sure, let me give you an "plink plink" email address where you can "plink" send that.
Caller: Ok, let me get a "plink" pen.
Me: Ma'am, what is that sound "plink" in the background?
Caller: Oh, that's a piano "plink" being tuned.

For her, that was probably the most natural sound. Maybe she is a music teacher, or a mother of a piano student, or maybe she works for a piano manufacturer. Who knows? I, on the other hand, am none of those things. I was completely distracted by the sound, and when I couldn't figure out what it was, I had to ask. Her tone when she told me a piano was being tuned was matter-of-fact bordering on "duh" with a touch of "you're rude to ask me."

I'M the rude one here? Classic Bon Qui Qui.

And I can't say I've never been guilty of committing any of these. I absolutely have. But realizing how completely bonkers it makes me, I try really hard to be courteous. I turn down my ringtone, especially in public. If I am in conversation with someone and my phone rings, I try to not answer calls unless it is really important. Voicemail was invented for a reason. There is such a thing as face-to-face conversation still.

Nearly everyone has cell phones, and while they are fantastic for so many things, they can also be nuisances. Let's try to be courteous of each other.

Not everyone thinks your Lady Gaga ringtone is nearly as awesome as you do.

Three sets of 10 reps each, and -- what's that guy doing?

A favorite childhood book, and mantra, of mine was "The Little Engine That Could." I appreciated, even at a young age, how the train engine had a goal, and despite obstacles, did everything it could to meet that goal, encouraged by his friends. Albeit the pictures of dolls and clowns and toy soldiers were a bit outdated (who even has toy soldiers anymore?), but the concept remained universally true.

Unfortunately my efforts to apply this concept to my physical exercise routine have fallen short. My spirit is willing but my resolve is so weak. For me, the hardest part of working out is getting in the car and driving the four miles up the road to the local YMCA, which is a great facility, and at which I have a free membership. (Yes, free, but that's another story.) As I drive those four measly miles in the air-conditioned car, flipping through the stations for a song from an artist who at least has a driver's license, I think how lame it is that I'm driving at all, and how I should be able to jog those four miles to the gym. Tons of people have walked or run four miles before I'm even out of REM sleep in the early morning hours. My grandmother has walked miles and miles every morning for as long as I can remember. And I complain about lacing up my sneakers (which, I should add, I just bought as motivation for me to go to the gym more)?

Last night as watched nothing in particular on TV, I whipped up a batch of cookie dough. At my house, cookie dough rarely makes it to the oven. Most of the time I don't bother to turn the oven on. This is a reality I am not ashamed to admit. So, as I absentmindedly ate dough from the bowl with a spoon, I resolved to hit the gym today.

Seriously.

I have to get to the gym.

I feel like a beached whale on this couch.

It's gross.

(But this cookie dough is awesome.)

I am proud to say I did make it to the gym today. I reacquainted myself with the elliptical and the treadmill and did a few miles on each. I figured one big spoonful was equal to one mile, and another half-mile covers the chocolate chips I ate right out of the bag that had no chance of making it into the dough. I looked for a dessert-guilt-lessening gauge between heart rate and distance, but couldn't find one.

As I huff and I puff (note the appropriate pig reference) and burn calories, I like to people-watch. I love to see that all kinds of people come to the YMCA. It really is a family-friendly place, so I see all demographics there. Little kids run around in Dora the Explorer swimsuits, and elderly people have coffee and talk about the good ol' days that included plowing fields as a form of exercise.

I also notice a gym brings out some interesting behavior.

I, like a lot of people, was insecure and self-conscious at first about working out in public. I didn't want everyone looking at me. Are they judging me? What if I do something weird, or wrong, or everyone laughs because I can only do three girly push-ups?

Well I got over that soon enough, but I think for a lot of people, insecurities still plague them.

Take, for example, a man who walks in in a tight t-shirt, sneakers, athletic shorts, and weightlifting gloves. Major swagger. His head is held high. He knows he is yoked. I gotta respect him for the work he has already put into his body, and I sort of want to ask him how much he can lift. I watch him (hoping he doesn't see me, trying not to be creepy or look like I am bucking for a dinner invitation).

He surveys the room, checking out the free-weights and the machines, and he makes a decision.

He stretches. He flexes. He sets the weight.

One rep, two reps, three reps, four.

Stop. Flex. Stretch.

Take a lap around the room.

Get a drink of water.

Check out the girl on the Stairmaster.

Exit through the double doors.

Huh? Just like that, he left. I'm baffled. Surely he's coming back. But he doesn't, at least not in the rest of the time I'm there. Is that really his workout?

I've noticed several people do this sort of thing -- they come in, do maybe 15 minutes worth of work, and leave. I must be missing the chromosome that allows for serious muscle definition with such little work.

Take also the perky blonde in the yellow Victoria' Secret PINK pants who comes in to work out while chatting on her cell phone. I don't know about her friends, but my friends are not interested in hearing me out of breath, jogging on the treadmill, trying to explain EXACTLY what he said and what I thought he meant when he said that and how I feel about what I think he meant when he said it.

Just today I also watched an elderly man shuffle into the workout room, in camouflage-print slippers, survey the equipment (similar to muscular-short-workout guy, but with less swagger), and decide on a stationary bike. He gingerly climbed on, cycled a few times, and reached in his shirt pocket to pull out a cell phone to take a call. He chatted for a few minutes, and continued to cycle.

A few minutes later, I see him again on another machine. On the cell phone.

Who are all these people who can work out and carry on conversations simultaneously? I must not be at that level of physical fitness. It's hard for me to even watch tv without losing my balance, and when the ground is moving underneath me, I need to focus as much as possible.

I also see a lot of teenagers at the gym; I presume a lot of them are student athletes. They mostly just look like they'd rather be somewhere else. As teenagers tend to be insecure and self-conscious as a general rule, I'm not surprised, but I wonder how this environment (a non-threatening YMCA with mostly strangers) compares to a high-school athletic center, filled with spirited competition, raging testosterone and towel-popping.

In addition to these interesting characters, I see many people, young and old, who I respect for seeking active, healthy lifestyles. I strive to be one of them. It takes motivation and hard work for anyone to lose weight, if that is a goal, or just try to be fit, which is mine.

Maybe this year I'll be able to jog that four miles to the YMCA, and four miles back.

And I try to eat cookie dough in moderation; I've switched to a smaller spoon.