I ran into a runner I know, on her way to the subway.
A true study since, if needing a polar opposite, it would be Lynn, who I’ve never not seen dressed to the nines.
Even running she could be an ad gleaming in her state-of-the-art Spandex, with a sports bra that comes with directions, cleavage and a lifetime warranty.
Today when I saw her, she wore skin tight, royal blue capris that made her rear end stop traffic, wondering if the seat came with an air pump.
Does she stand all day? How could you possibly comfortably sit with an ass that extended.
Idle thoughts of someone who doesn’t have much of one.
An exercise nut, with arms that look sculpted by Michelangelo, a tulip tattoo painted by Monet. She told me she had ordered a special red from a tattoo parlor in Denver, complimenting her many accessories. (Of course I didn’t make this up. How could I? It’s just too out-there, even for my warped imagination.)
But what throws me the most, are her ever present stilettos.
Do Lynn’s ears pop as she swans along? How bout her calves…do they ache at the end of the day? Of course they’re the size of mangoes from all those step classes she takes.
I find myself greeting her warmly because, despite the excess, still truly like her. She rescues animals, having a soft spot for pits. Her smile radiates like movie lights, and she’s always so happy to see me.
“Hi girl,” she’ll say, “you’re lookin mighty pretty, as usual.”
Me in my baggy gym shorts and torn tank top, making me look like I just escaped from a Catholic House of Detention.
“Oh Lynn, you sure put me to shame, looking as sensational as you do. I think I better go home and change.”
She laughs, shaking a lion’s mane of blonde hair, striking one last pose, the closet action figure I believe her to be, before cheerfully clippety-clopping down those subway steps.