Listen, lady. Don’t ruin it for the rest of us.
Maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who gets catcalls all the time. But if you’re like me, catcalls are few and far between and anytime I’m out running and I get one—well, it’s cause for a damn celebration.
And celebrate, I do.
I’ve been known to slow down my pace, throw my hands in the air like I just don’t care, and give a “WOOT WOOT!” just before bending over for a quick bow—the thought of tripping over my own shoelaces while I’m showing off for my would-be suitors be damned. (You think I’m lying? You think a whole gaggle of construction workers didn’t witness that whole debacle I just described about three months ago, causing them to whoop at me even more so that when I finally did stop bowing and jog away, I finished the rest of my run with an ear-to-ear grin on my bright red, sweaty, huffing—yet appreciated—face? I felt like a goddamned rock star, and even the sight of my slumped over, 5-miles-in jogging stance in the reflection of a store window couldn’t take that away from me.)
But today…well, today was a different story. I jogged a hot, hilly 6 miles with nary a catcall, whistle, or honking horn in earshot. And I made sure to jog really slowly.
Okay, I always jog really slowly, but in this case, I’m going to claim that my turtle-in-peanut-butter pace was just my own little way of making sure that all passersby had ample time to notice me and give the appropriate response. (And NO, “appropriate response” does NOT mean a half empty beer can whizzing by my face, missing my humongous nose by just a hair. At least throw a cold, full one next time so that I can pick it up and drink it when I’m finished, DICKWAD IN THE BLACK PICKUP TRUCK.)
Anyway, I think I’m going to write Congress and ask that they pass legislation ticketing anyone who drives by and doesn’t pay attention to my fat ass waddling up the many hills on my route. I'll be happy to whip out a pen and paper stowed in my sports bra for the sole purpose of recording the license plate numbers of any offenders (or should I say non-offenders?). Lord knows I jog slowly enough to make writing easy.
Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do.
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