Yesterday was the Super Bowl, and let me tell you – something definitely kicked my butt. (I can’t say ass. My mom reads my blog and unless it’s ‘asshat,’ a fully justifiable adjective, she frowns upon written cursing. Especially on the Internet.)
Naturally, you assume it was the beer that got me. Legitimate thoughts, my friends, but you’re wrong. It might have been the 15+ dips I sampled at DAP VI (Dip-a-palooza Vi: if you don’t know you obviously weren’t invited.) And it DEFINITELY was the verbal scolding from SM – who may or may not have finished her microbrew only to dive into her bf’s stash of Natty Light lips first. Who am I to judge? I’m not. She was acting in true Super Bowl form, and she did it with a whole lot of class.
No, she didn’t yell at me. But way to assume that any word-vomit associated with alcohol is negative. She told me exactly what I needed to hear. Flat out: you don’t blog enough, therefore I don’t check it everyday. (Trust me, her verbiage was more detailed than that…also slightly circular.)
So, in her honor (hehe)…Couple Runners.
I do a lot, let me stress A LOT, of walking around Greenlake. I find the fresh air/movement/people watching/coffee every mile to not only be a great source of entertainment and exercise – but also a cure for almost any hangover. No, Mom, I’m not hungover. I wasn’t Sunday either!
There are a multitude of things I could go on about when it comes to the 3+ miles around Greenlake. The annoying little brats that ride their bikes too fast. Rollerbladers. (Hi, 1995 much?) People that buy toy dogs then try to run with them. Or even worse, buy them a stroller. No – what’s really getting to me? Couple runners.
I know what you are thinking: she’s just bitter because she’s single (and Sunday is Valentine’s Day). Again, you my friend are wrong. It’s because I hate to run.
Although, I did wake up two weeks ago with a gung-ho, ‘Ima go for a run’ in my new spandy pants! attitude. Had my sports bra on, my cute new capris and my need-to-be-replaced-immediately ‘running’ shoes. Nikki invited me to lunch at Buckley’s, to which I obliged. Then everyone else was drinking Bloody Mary’s and looking around the table being the single, odd one out seemed less appealing to vodka/tomato/spicy deliciousness. Then it was raining.
Couple runners. Sometimes they dress is coordinating outfits. Seriously? Addidas didn’t make a men’s AND women’s version of that tracksuit with the intention you would both buy the same color. Also, who even wears Addidas anymore? My spell check doesn’t even recognize it!
If they aren’t coordinating, you can thank your lucky stars. Unfortunately, someone is still wearing something they shouldn’t be.
He’s wearing: Spandex pants for that airstream, dynamic, serious-runner look to impress her.
She’s thinking: Ew, spandex. At least wear shorts to cover up your situation – ye, situation.
She’s wearing: Her sports bra and booty shorts.
He’s thinking: Count it! I’m so getting laid.
Girl walking the opposite direction is thinking: Bitch.
He’s wearing: Running shorts. You know, the kind with the side slits and built-in mesh that you can only find at Value Village or your Grandpa’s closet from 1952 when he played college ball.
She’s thinking: Ew, short shorts. At least wear spandex to cover up your thighs, perv.
She’s wearing: Knee-high athletic socks and mascara.
He’s thinking: Jeez, this Gamma-Phi-Kappa-Delt is trendy. I wonder what would happen if I shoved her into that mud puddle.
Everyone knows runners are competitive. Hello, that’s why they have RACES. The whole point of a race is to beat your time, or your roommate’s time, or your boyfriend’s time, or the person running next to you’s time. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a race. It would a bunch of stupid skinny people with numbers on their stomachs running like mice through a pre-determined course.
To make the couple-running pair even more entertaining (and obnoxious) is the fact that someone is always running slower than they want to be. Generally speaking, there is one lagging slightly behind the other, almost tripping on their counterparts’ heels. A metaphor of their relationship? You thought it, not me. Ok, me too. Sacrificing your competitive nature so that he thinks he is just as fast as you are. This just in: he’s not. (Sorry boys, I give that one to the chicks.)
Wouldn’t you rather be dodging bikers and the cast of Saved By the Bell while actively lip-syncing “Stronger” by Britney Spears around the lake? You think about that.
The answer you are looking for is: the Bloody Mary. I bet if I saved the $8 every time I wanted a Bloody Mary I could buy new running shoes in a month. JS.