Now, in an idealistic world, I’d meet my perfect man in a coffee shop. He’d order the exact same Americano with an extra shot; no milk and no sugar combo and we’d laugh at how life without coffee has no meaning to us at all.
I would not meet my idealistic man when out for a run.
Now imagine this; I haven’t been running in a month (assignments ruining my regime), I’m clothed in a fluorescent green, lightweight jacket and purple trainers (I have other clothes on too). I have no make up on, and my hair hasn’t been washed in about 3 days. I’m sweating profusely. It’s safe to say I’m not looking my best.
This is not the time to approach a female.
I’m running along, minding my own business, and thinking about how much cake I can reward myself with… when some wannabe Olympian runs past me at the speed of light. Despite this being the most un-gentlemanly thing to do (ladies first), I was also petrified running along this desolate road to actually see a fellow human life. This man had his headphones in so I assumed that deafness was bestowed upon him and he had failed to hear me squeal in shock. I carry on running only to see the man in question has stopped to look at his shoes. Now with alarm bells ringing that I’m going to get picked up and thrown into a passing white van, I pick up my running pace and overtake him with an evil cackle brewing inside of me (cocky, I’m aware).
Only, this man then runs up beside me.
Now, I have one of those faces that people think they can approach. I can deliberately dress like a teenage yob with my Rockports and my hoody and I will still get approached by lonely people wanting a chat with my overly friendly face. I honestly can pull a creep in any given situation. If you have one of these faces, you will share my pain. If you don’t have one of these faces, I envy you and your genes.
This man, who I assumed was the same age as I was, started to run with me. Bear in mind, I’m trying to look sexy sweaty, rather than pass-out sweaty, and talking eludes me when I’m running. Before I know what’s happening, I’m off on a route that he has suggested we go on, and instead of the quick 3 mile route I had hoped for, I am instead sprinting for a very long way, for a very long time, miles away from the comfort of my fridge. Seriously, Mo Farah, eat your heart out. However, my new running partner does not stop talking the whole route, he lives with his mother, he has no girlfriend, and his shoe size is an 8 (I wasn’t impressed by that either), he doesn’t drink and he mentions that he’s been running for seven years… Now I’m suspicious that someone can have been running since they were 12 years old, so I ask how old he is. He’s 33. I run faster in the direction of my sanctuary; my home seems ridiculously far away.
So eventually, things are starting to spin a little and this guy is still talking to me and I’m now trying to get rid of him more forcefully. I tell him we’re opposite my house (we’re a mile away from my humble abode) and he starts asking my name, whether I’d like to go for a run the next day, what time would I like to meet… Speech is becoming strained, vomit is starting to rise and I throw up, officially ending my new found friendship. This is literally the worst run I’ve ever been on, and that includes the time I went with my dad and he made me cry (my dad ran triathlons).
The sad thing is, attracting a creep whilst on a run is about as exciting as my love life has gotten in 2013.
And for the record, I’m never wearing the fluorescent green jacket again.
Anonymous
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