Gits

The humidity has not let up.
These past two weeks have been a reintroduction to the perils of running in New York City weather.  I got a taste of it when I was training for the half-marathon about a year/plus ago, in the dead heart of winter.  I think I might prefer to be running out in the cold with 15 layers of moisture-wicking clothing than in the relentless sweat-inducing humidity of July.  (Of course, the grass is always greener, as they say.)  The upside of running in winter is that no one can really get a good look at you, hence the dearth of "compliments".

This past weekend was a treat, being at the beach and running along a boardwalk with no "compliment"-givers in sight.  In fact, the 3 remarks that were made included an empowering shout from a local lifeguard, a 'take-it-easy' from an older passer-by, and a little cheer from my beach-blanket bound roommate, upon my return.  However, the treat was short-lived upon returning to my weekday routine and being harangued by a 17-year old youngster on Tuesday, who insisted on calling me 'honey' as he followed me down the block.  I was barely warming up, still in a little walk-trot, and he kept close at my heels, softly jibing at me as I tried to ignore him.

However, I have my limits.  And being harangued by tiny boys is one of the many.
I was so fed up with the name-calling that I turned around and got into a little 'conversation'....

The punchline here is: futility.

17yo: Hey honey, you're lookin' good.
Me: (hand on hip, aghast) Exactly how old are you?
17yo: 17.
Me: (laughs, shakes head)
17yo: How old are you?
Me: Guess.
17yo: 20.
Me: (laughing even harder) Nope.
17yo: 25?
Me: (secretly flattered and yet still appalled) Sweetie, I'm almost old enough to be your mother.
17yo: (suggestively) You can be my mama, I'd like that.
Me: (taken aback, and now seriously shaking head) That's so wrong.
17yo: I like how you call me sweetie.
Me: (putting up the 'stop-sign' hand) No.
17yo: (finally slowing down) You could teach me some things, c'mon.
Me: (fed up and now resorting to lies in order to stop him in his pursuit) I've got someone to teach already.
17yo: (calling after me) I can be your second man! C'mon...!
Me: (running away and avoiding eye contact as I should have done in the first place)  No!
17yo: You still look hot, honey!

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why one should simply not say anything to anyone, ever, on the street. Especially not little 17 year old gits, to borrow a favored expression.

I think I'll be seeking out new running routes soon.