Wednesday after dinner, I donned on my industrial strength bra, a sweat and sauce stained gray t-shirt and my trusty, ugly ass, shiny red and white running shorts and took my fuzzy legs out for my routine two mile run. I managed to run the first mile in a record 9:48 and celebrated on the sidewalk by yanking the wedgie out of my fanny and then cramping to the point of giving birth to my entire ribcage.
I started an awkward run/walk combo back to my house, alternating between readjusting my stubborn undies and hydrating myself by slurping up all the sweat pouring down my face. About a minute later, an obese old man walking on the other side of the street and wearing thick, fuzzy, white socks with brown sandals, whistled at me. I know this because (1) I clearly heard the whistle since, as luck would have it, it occurred mere seconds after I almost strangled myself on my iPod and had jerked the earphones out of my ears and was trying to unwrap them from around my neck; (2) when I glanced up in the direction of the whistle, I saw him looking straight at me; (3) he called out LOOKING GOOD, SWEETHEART to me; and (4) he winked. Or possibly had a short seizure. By that point, did it really matter?
I didn’t know whether to be flattered, outraged, grossed out or concerned that there was a fat old man obviously suffering from a concussion or dementia or cataracts running loose in the neighborhood. Not knowing how to react, I paused for a second, pulled at my wedgie and considered my options:
- I could act all indignant and give him a piece of my mind but then I remembered that I don’t have too many of those pieces left and I’ve got to ration what precious little I’ve got because hello? My mother is visiting in two weeks. Besides, it’s hard to act all indignant when you’ve got Fruit of the Looms jammed up your bum.
- I could ignore him but then I remembered that this never worked on my kids and would probably result in me being flashed with wrinkled franks and beans from the Titanic era and then my bunched up Fruit of the Looms would be the least of my problems.
- I could have thanked him because a compliment is a compliment after all and when you have to dress up as a Playstation 3 to get a similar acknowledgment from your husband, you take what you can get.
- I could have distracted him by pointing to his fuzzy white socks and yelling HEY MISTER, DON’T LOOK NOW BUT BUNNIES ARE RAPING YOUR ANKLES except that would have been mean and besides, I didn’t feel much like yelling, seeing as how my sternum was crowning and all.
In the end, I chose to simply smile at him, give him a thumbs up and then continue on my way, all the while licking my face and cursing my Fruit of the Looms and trying not to asphyxiate myself to the lyrics of Short Skirt Long Jacket blaring out my earphones which had, by that point, migrated to my boobs.
Just curious, how would you have handled the situation?