Last summer in Boston, I started running. It’s not a habit I stuck with for a variety of excuses, but I liked doing it. I felt healthier – finally a way to purge all of the toxins in my body without ceasing to ingest them! I had a three mile loop in Cambridge that I followed, and I’d like to keep that up SF. The route I ran was pretty residential but I cruised past a few local businesses, a hospital and a firehouse. People left me alone. There were lots of other runners who left me in the dust (not that I cared, I was just happy to be out in the sunshine).
I decided to take up the effort again on Sunday. I ran up to Alta Plaza Park which offers an amazing view of the city, provided you get to the top. On my way there, a woman said to me with utter sincerity “You go girl!” It was a great affirmation, after I stopped laughing. So after running about a mile and half, I forced myself to jog/walk/crawl up four big sets of stone steps. I was afraid my legs would give out on me but I made it up and allowed myself to rest and enjoy the view.
Today I thought I would try going somewhere new, so I ran towards the downtown area. Now, I am fairly used to being catcalled. I think it has a lot to do with the tattoos rather than my physique (despite assurances to the contrary, I don’t see what people like about my potato sack ass). I was on my first few blocks, and I ran past some guys sitting on a stoop, who made some overtures towards me then past a guy who asked me where I was going. I gestured that he should follow me (totally in jest), and he asked what my name was. I laughed and told him he should keep up if he wanted to find out. He declined but told me he’d see my on my way back. Needless to say, I didn’t take that street back home. The rest of the run was uneventful. I don’t think I went quite as far as I had the other day because my muscles gave up (okay, I gave up). But at least I did it. Perhaps I stopped getting comments because by the end, I looked like this:
This made me think. I need to find out where nerdy hipsters and wealthy .com boys hang out (there have to be like, five, left in the city, right?). Not that the group of guys hollering at me were particularly unattractive, but they weren’t necessarily my type. Then again, it’s doubtful that I would get catcalled by some guy wearing a plaid flannel shirt and black-rimmed glasses. Better idea – I should go running wearing one of these. I’m sure I could get one printed on a tank top. If you don’t want to physically run after me, you can at least follow my internet presence.