Think bears with a full fridge.
There should be a law that men can’t wear Spandex, their private parts incarcerated with a little too much definition for my taste, if you know what I mean.
And the women look like ads in their new expensive togs and state-of-the-art sneakers sashaying like weekend houseguests who aren’t quite familiar with the grounds.
You and the 20 or so other all-year-rounders try to be patient like all good hosts, but sometimes it gets challenging.
Like this morning.
I was a bit later then usual so the light was already up. There’s a Spandexed woman in front of me, on her phone, I’m trying to pass. The trouble is, every time I do she slips in front like a car careening on the freeway.
Finally after a few minutes of this mindless behavior, I call out.
“Hey, could you please let me by?”
She ignores me.
I say it again. Ignores me again.
Okie-doxie…”WILL YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY PLEASE.”
She jumps hanging up her phone.
“Well you don’t have to yell,” says this 45 maybe 50, hard to tell with all the face work, how old she is exactly, her make-up done like she’s ready for her close-up.
I, on the other hand, look like one of the boat people in my old shorts and hoodie, sneaks that need replacing since my left big toe is waving to the folks back home.
“I’ve been trying to get your attention,” I say, “but you’re been on the phone, which by the way, really kinda defeats the purpose of being out here…
She tries interrupting.
It’s a time of personal meditation, not the coffee hour. You know what I mean?”
She ponders this, to her credit then says, “Well, my doctor told me to start easy, so I was just walking, to get my body ready.”
For what, a massage? No I didn’t say that.
Instead, feeling guilty for yelling, give her a few pointers inviting her to join me, which she happily agrees to do.
“You’re like a personal trainer,” she says, taking a slug of water from the little plastic bottle hooked to her Fendi fanny pack like a .38.
“Running sure works up a thirst,” she says, after we go maybe 30 feet.
When we get to the westside cutoff, I excuse myself.
“You’ll be fine, just keep running at that moderate pace.”
“Thanks,” she says, as I leave.
When I turn around, there she is, back on her phone, strolling like a well-heeled snail.