Bonus Track!

I've been meaning to tell you this story for a couple of weeks now, but keep forgetting.  Nothing too exciting, but funny in a "Boys are SO DUMB," kind of way.

So, a favorite fall tradition of Zandar's and mine are Saturday morning runs along the Tow Path at Rutgers.  I pick her up early and we drive to the RU campus, park, and then walk up the hill to the opening of the path that runs for a good length of NJ.  We have to walk across these rocks to get to the dirt path, and if you know anything about our coordination, you know we are quite a sight, trying to decipher the sturdy rocks from the wobbly ones in an attempt to not fall in the Raritan.  We are always successful, though, and it is the PERFECT place for a fall run.  The path is shaded and as the weeks progress, so do the colors of the leaves, so that by November you are running literally in awe of the beauty of nature around you.  Until a squirrel jumps in front of you, of course, and you scream and cling to each other.  But anyway.

We've gone several times this fall, and although we've been running a little slower, we've also been running farther and we end with a celebratory high-five and an incredible runner's high.  We always cap off our morning with pumpkin spice lattes and oatmeal at Starbucks on George St., and if we're lucky enough to scrounge one up, a crossword puzzle.  (We finished the last one.  We felt invincible that day.)

However, the "boys are so dumb story" happened right before said breakfast and puzzle on Saturday a couple of weeks ago.  You see, when we run, we lock our purses in my trunk.  So when we park for breakfast, we inevitably have to retrieve them, by leaning into the trunk, with our stretchy pants-clad rear ends in the air.  What's bad is (and I hope Zandar doesn't mind me sharing this) that when we run, we sweat- disgustingly.  Enough so that our butts look like Rorschach tests from the butt sweat.  You know, those ink blot tests they use to tell what pysch patients are thinking?  And speaking of psych patients... that fateful morning, as we were grabbing our bags in anticipation of Starbucks goodness, this guy on a bicycle came flying by and said in this guttural voice that creepers reserve for hitting on women they don't know, "Look-in' gooo---ooood."

Ew.

Ew for two reasons. 

1.)  That is just plain gross.  In general, I HATE when guys think that the fact that you have boobs is an open invitation to comment on your sex appeal.  I hate the random beeps and shouts from passing by cars, the under-the-breath mutterings as I walk by, and especially the thinking that since I'm out dancing with my girlfriends at a bar means that what I really want is for some sweaty, over-"Axed," dirtbag to come grind up against my backside.  (Okay, there may have been a brief time during my life when I wouldn't have minded this so much- specifically one summer when one of my best friends and I found ourselves single simultaneously, for the first and only time- probably for the best.  We wreaked a little havoc that summer.  But that was 10 years ago and everyone has a phase like that, right?  Right???)  Anyway, the point is that guys can be so gross.  Once, I was walking down the street in Manasquan (okay, so maybe it was partially my fault for being in Manasquan) and there were guys outside holding up paper plates with numbers on them, scoring the attractiveness of girls as they walked by.  (I got a 10, which only made it a fraction less disgusting.)  Another time a guy in an SUV followed me down the Garden State Parkway trying to get me to yell my phone number to him while going 70 mph.  Man, sometimes I daydream about what winners I could have ended up with had I not been swept up by Ivan... some real princes out there, I tell you.

But honestly, in no way do I think that any of this unwanted (for the most part) attention was paid to me in my youth for any other reason than the fact that I am female.  Which is hysterical.  One of my favorite ways to demonstrate this point is with another story:

Maybe 3 or 4 years ago I took Zandar and a friend of hers out "down the shore" to show them the ropes as they had recently turned 21 and had not yet experienced the rapture that is a night in Belmar.  As we walked to the bars, a car slowed down and yelled out at us, probably something about how "bangin'" we were, but the actual words escape me now, being that I'm 100 years old.  I'll never forget how Zandar's friend, we'll call her "C,"  looked at me, wide-eyed, and said, "B, does this just happen to you everywhere you go?"  It was so sweet, innocent, and flattering that she thought that the drive by shout-out had something to do with the beauty and sensuality I so effortlessly exude and nothing to do with the fact that we were in an insanely trashy shore town and we have lady parts.

This past summer, the same trio went out, this time in Seaside (no better, I know, but we were there to see a band) and as we walked back to our car, the inevitable slurred pick-up line came flying out of a passing SUV and "C," now a seasoned veteran, flipped them off without missing a beat and continued with the story she was telling.

So that was a rather long explanation of why bicycle guy was so "Ew."  To summarize, it is unacceptable for guys to hit on, touch, or dance with girls without some reasonable assumption that they are interested in said interaction.  And calling out from a moving vehicle (no matter the number of wheels) is never a good idea.

2.)  The other reason I say, "Ew" to this guy who thought it would be appropriate or appreciated to growl out "Lookin' good," to us is.... because we WEREN'T!  We were not looking good.  We were looking gross.  Our hair was matted and our mascara was smeared from sleeping, we were in workout clothes, and I already mentioned the butt sweat.  For all of my feminist ranting, isn't it terrible that my gut reaction (after "ew") was, "Ha!  You think this looks good?  You fool.  This is nothing.  You should see me 10 lbs lighter, in my butt-lifting jeans and some killer heels.  Never mind, you couldn't handle it."

And this is why I'm a crazy person.

I know that my days of the random shout outs and unwelcome advances are probably drawing to a close, probably forever, but definitely for a hiatus as the baby bump grows.  I'm sure some of the ladies in my family are reading this saying, "Don't worry, B, you won't have to worry about this much longer," or even, "Someday you'll miss that attention."  And maybe I will.  But for now, I'm excited about a reprieve from the skeeve, so to speak.  And if I ever start to feel nostalgic, I'll get Ivan a bike and tell him to start practicing his creeper voice.  :)