I knew I should have had the sole, even if mine’s missing.
It happened just this morning on my way to the track.
An attractive older man dressed in chinos and a button-down, his navy blazer thrown over his shoulder like in a Tommy Hilfiger ad, was strolling with a pretty, though rather plump, lady in her 40s.
She had a body the opposite of mine: ample, bosomy…fleshy legs like a basset (no offense Carmela). The kind one always assumes men prefer.
Another myth, according to the Book of Camille.
There I was perking from my two cups of Starbucks Pike in my running togs that, let’s just say aren’t exactly chic. I look more like a refugee than a jiggly jogger whose brassiere is more ornamental than necessary.
His curvy companion clung to his arm along with every word he uttered, making me wince as I whizzed by. Never being a fan of ego building, what women don’t realize is how dangerous it is to inflate a man’s self-worth where he believes he can actually walk on water. Before you can say, look…I’ve created a monster, he’s left you high and dry on shore, quite often with the check.
Better to leave a smidgen of self-doubt, just to keep him in line along with his pants so they stay zipped, at least in your presence.
Now if a man gives me the eye when he’s alone (and doesn’t have two heads), I’m fine with that. Nature says it’s what men do…stare and leer, letch and lust. Gawking is part of their gene pool after all, the way we look at shoes and babies.
But please fellas, if you don’t mind…keep it in your pants when you’re already engaged. Think, one at a time. It makes everyone feel so much better…
while you don’t look like such a schmuck.