The Social Etiquette of Running

Tomorrow is my two year anniversary of running at work. I feel happy that I have continued on the path of the Embarcadero to relative health and fitness. And while I like running as much as anyone can like an activity that is very solitude in nature and often painful in effort, there is a seemingly social etiquette aspect that I am learning.

1. Men runners like to waive “hi” to me when running.
2. Women runners like to just stare.
3. Men runners talk to you sometimes.
4. Women runners check out your thighs.
5. Men runners get really pissed off when you pass them.

I don’t really get the “hi” or “great jobs” I sometimes receive from male runners. Once there was a wink, but I am pretty sure that might have been an insect that had flown into this guy’s eye because the last thing I would imagine anyone would want to do when gasping for air down the Embarcadero is flirt. But then this guy today waved at me and I was all - holy shit, maybe I need a new sports bra to contain this bounce. So, someone, tell me - is it just a friendly thing one does to acknowledge your comrade in breathing hell, or are these fools unaware that I can’t even comprehend the concept of flirting anymore. I am a mom for god’s sake. Gross.

The God Punishment Theory

When little, I first came in contact with the phrase "Well that is God punishing you." It would usually happen after I talked back to my mother, and then promptly stub my toe. She would say "See, that is God punishing you." Now, how does God overseeing six billion plus people possible take the time to punish me? I mean come on already? No way, Jose. Well, you know what, he totally does. They don't call him omnipotent for nothing. This is not Catholic guilt speaking, this is a true and tried fact. God will punish yee, especially when you are doing something that is completely and utterly laughable. It is the slap in the face that wakes you up from the fog of your own stupidity. A perfect example was this past Saturday. After indulging in the joys of the Park Chalet, namely beers and oysters, John and I walked home with Owen. It must have been something about the beer, or the fact that I have lost weight, but these beers hit me. And they hit me hard. As we were walking home, the following occurred:

John: Cass, why don't I get the boy fed, bathed and to bed.
Me: No John, I can do it. Really.
John: Sweetie, you're drunk. I will do it.
Me: I am not that drunk.

0.00000002 seconds later, I am sprawled on the ground with skinned knee. In a fall that John said was of "comic proportions." God had punished me. I imagine him saying the following: "Oh look, I really hope she admits that she is drunk and incapable of taking care of her son." "Ah yep, nope, she failed. It must be done." Zing, Zam, Zoon. And there I lay on the concrete with the realization that no matter what, God will always punish me for being stupid. And leave little reminders not to do it again, like the current state of me knee (if you are squeamish turn away):



So yeah, lesson learned.

Comedy of Errors

This is a complete list of things that happened to me during my run at lunch.

1. No socks. Somehow when I placed my socks by the bed with the rest of my running attire, they decided to go missing so that in the bathroom while getting changed there was the inevitable question "To run or not to run?" I decided run. Stinky feet, stinky feet, someone has stinky feet.

2. Wrong shirt. Instead of grabbing my Nikey dry-fit shirt, I grabbed a Gap stretchy T of the same color. Let me say that its sweat wick factor - NON-FREAKING EXISTENT.

3. Boob Shrinkage. Well it seems my knockers are getting smaller, because while running my boobs repeatedly fell out of my jog bra. Yeah weight loss, but heavens to Betsy, sticking your hands down your bra while jogging. Stupid.

4. Fleece Running Outfit. Speaking of stupid, hello Cassandra McCall you no longer live in Boston, Massachusetts but sunny (today) San Francisco, California. Fleece jogging wear, not conducive to a low sweat factor, especially when running sockless with no drifit. Seriously, today I was the evil villainess of sweat - fear her salty sweaty stench.

5. Towels, Who Needs Towels. While finishing my labor intensive record long shower, I realized I forgot the towels. I am shy, so unlike many others, I can't saunter across a room naked and not wish a swift death. Besides, our work showers are also the Promenade's women's bathroom. I ran across the room to the other bathroom (where the towels are located) and then skedaddled back in about 3.2 seconds as on the return trip I slide across the tiled floor almost falling. Unfortunately these towels are tiny and incapable of hiding the goods, so I had to make the quick dash back to safety. Thank you Jesus for allowing me some grace so that I was not laying spread eagle for a bathroom visiting co-worker, because that could have been just slightly awkward.

6. No Hair Brush. I forgot my hairbrush resulting in me having to finger comb my hair while drying, which in all honestly looks exactly the same as if I had a brush. Thank you fine hair.

So there you have it. Next time when I forget my socks, you will be damn sure I will take it as the first sign of the apocalypse of running.

Ms. Clumsy 2008

This morning while searching for some change in order to purchase some coffee, I walked full speed into a concrete wall. With my head down, I did not negotiate properly the turn and slammed my face into the wall. Now my forehead (complete with red spot), neck, nose, teeth and left big toe are throbbing. I am pretty sure this ranks me in the upper echelon of carnival freaky clumsy. I am actually quite surprised I did not knock myself out. I walk pretty fast, and took a turn into a concrete fucking wall. I still can't believe it. I am stunned. I have a headache and wondering if it is possible that I gave myself a concussion. So, Ms. McCall how exactly did you give yourself a concussion? Well doctor, I was walking and was taking a turn while looking for change and slammed my face and left foot into a concrete wall. I think this is certain proof of my winning of a Darwin Award. I mean really.

Now in other news that does not involve my complete and utter lack of grace, last night while walking home (this time without slamming my face into walls), I stumbled upon some dog poop. Most would just step aside, and continue on. But what did I do? I said, holy crap (get it?), that poop looks like a butterfly! So I took a photo. Please don't judge me. This dog is obviously Picasso reincarnated.