Disclaimer: Mom, dad and otherwise concerned citizens might stop here. Post contains recount of stalker material and a generally disturbing narrative.
Let's be honest - I'm no stranger to stalkers. Give me a perverted elderly man in a wheelchair, or an Iranian college drop out (who ultimately... was deported from the country and somehow snuck back in), and I'd shrug and say, "been there, done that." But it's been a while. And so, just when I got to trusting human kind again, in enters the mustang stalker.
I've been training for the half marathon by myself this year. The concern has never really been safety, but whether or not I'm competent to physically push and challenge myself to train faster, harder, etc. Entering into week five of a 12 week training schedule, so far it's proved to be fine, and on this particular afternoon I was pacing faster than I had on any previous runs this year. I was feeling unstoppable. My Pandora station was set to the angry-girl music I've grown accustomed to tuning into lately, and after an insane day in the office, the sheer awareness of running as fast as I could had never felt more divine. I was in the zone - a personally challenging destination for me to arrive.
Rounding out mile four, I noticed a vehicle creeping alongside me. You're running alongside a lake RB. Maybe the guy's looking at the ducks. Not losing my focus. The Cranberries queued up on the station, and I pressed on. Except... my left peripheral detected the car was continuing to pace with me, and as I looked left to confirm, I noticed a gentleman rolling down the window of his orange mustang and looking directly at me, smiling from ear to ear. He didn't try to duck behind a barrier or pretend to look away when I made note of him either. Gross. Not sure what's more disturbing - his decision to drive an orange mustang or the Cheshire Cat grin he was offering up.
No matter. Today's run was a personal record, and I wasn't going to let some orange mustang-driving cheese ball slow me down. He noticed my disregard, and pulled into the nearest parking spot ahead. Before he could exit, I had flown past him, and he was in the dust. Bye bye, orange creepy.
I powered through the remainder of the run, successfully achieving my PR for the year, only to find the creeper parked directly across from my car. How did he know which car was mine? It's OK. There are plenty of people around and you're probably being paranoid. He leaned casually against the side of his car, middle-aged, medium build, Indian or some Middle Eastern descent, and sporting an offensively matching orange top. He was openly staring at me now. Unlucky for him, there was a gentleman stretching adjacent to my car and for whatever reason, he it was clear he wasn't approaching with him present. I cooled off, keeping one eye on orange creep, and the other on my stretching savior. No more than a few seconds, the stretching man hopped up, and Mr. Orange moved in.
"So... are you tired?" he shouted across the way.
I was perched on the trunk of my car, and I practically fell on my face jumping down and running around to the driver's side. "In a hurry - bye!" I shouted, slamming the door shut. There was no disguising the interaction and I wasn't going to play coy. Doors locked. I glanced in my rear view mirror and found Mr Orange sprinting back to his car. I realized what was happening, and simultaneously accepted the challenge at hand. It was almost like I had been waiting for this challenge my whole life. He was going to chase me and I had to engage in losing him. Peeling out of the parking lot he followed a bit back. First mistake, Mr. Two quick turns, swerves and flooring thrills through yellow lights and he was gone. Well... that didn't take much.
I sped most of the way home just in case. And now I find myself a little bit on edge, but nothing crazy. Maybe this is for the good. No harm done, and a dangerous high speed chase under my belt. WIN.
Perhaps time to choose another running trail, and possibly even a high powered pepper spray. #BewareSuspiciousLookingMenofAZ
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
The Middle Seat Traveler - Meet Crummy
There's a reason people have love/hate relationships with air travel. This particular tale happens to be one of hatred, as on my most recent cross-country journey, I found myself seated aside one of, if not the world's most repulsive individuals. Allow me to elaborate.
She looked normal upon approach, of course, else I would have persisted in my search for the best possible seat (open seating is certainly another airline offering that poses as a curse and a blessing, but that's one for another day). I zeroed in on this woman and gave her the universally recognized eye contact and nod that we all know on airplanes communicates, "I'm going to be sharing a row with you. Please accept my proposal and stand up to let me in." The woman obliged, and I settled into my only option in this particular row - a middle seat. (It's becoming clear that middle seats are bad, bad, bad to me - "The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B"). No more than a few minutes after I was seated, I realized the astronomic mistake I had just made.
This woman, let's call her Crummy, thought it a good idea to bring along a little snack for the flight. Once I was settled in and therefore, committed and stuck, Crummy decided she'd start eating. Slowly, as if to not disturb a plane full of sleeping babies, she delicately pulled open the seat pocket in front of her. Peering down into it, she retrieved an unidentified brown paper bag. Ever so gingerly, she set it atop her lap and slowly and carefully, Crummy opened the sac and lowered her overly wide hand down into it. Slowly still, her hand emerged from the bag with a small fragment of an egg sandwich. Odd. This coming too, from a fellow egg lover. As the morsel made contact with her lips, a shower of flaky crumbs were released into thin air, most of which landed on Crummy's chest and belly, but copious amounts of which also ended up in my lap. She released a satisfied moan, which startled me at first and then frankly, pissed me off. I leaned forward and looked directly at her - yet another universal symbol for "what you're doing is disturbing me" - and simultaneously, began brushing her egg crumbs off of my lap in aggressive and dramatic motions. Crummy didn't waver. Instead, she began to brush the crumbs from her bosom in my direction, causing even more to land on my undeserving lap, and then, to actually grab hold of the fabric on her blouse and do a sort of fan flick action several times, sending the remaining chunks flying. My best horrified face and most noticeable sweeping gesture was no match. I knew that if ever a time to truly master the art of unspoken body language and gestures was needed, it was now. I produced one last really mad face, craning my neck to stare her in the face. She needed to know how badly I thought her behavior. Crummy noticed my glare, smiled big and reached forward for the brown bag.
I gave up. She couldn't be bothered. She was in some sort of trance or possibly was heavily medicated. The latter, actually making the most sense.
Crummy continued this charade for the better part of an hour - the same slow and careful process, each bite emerging from the brown sac tinier than the prior and each time releasing a sigh of delight and a mist of egg flake - at which point she had finally consumed all that there was of this vile egg sandwich. She retreated back into her chair as if to take a siesta from all the hard work, but not before one final victory catapult of egg morsels into my now stained and completely beaten-down lap.
It was the worst recorded air travel account to date. And despite my trepidation, here's to getting ready to hop on the flight back home. For the love of God, I will be avoiding the middle seat.
She looked normal upon approach, of course, else I would have persisted in my search for the best possible seat (open seating is certainly another airline offering that poses as a curse and a blessing, but that's one for another day). I zeroed in on this woman and gave her the universally recognized eye contact and nod that we all know on airplanes communicates, "I'm going to be sharing a row with you. Please accept my proposal and stand up to let me in." The woman obliged, and I settled into my only option in this particular row - a middle seat. (It's becoming clear that middle seats are bad, bad, bad to me - "The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B"). No more than a few minutes after I was seated, I realized the astronomic mistake I had just made.
This woman, let's call her Crummy, thought it a good idea to bring along a little snack for the flight. Once I was settled in and therefore, committed and stuck, Crummy decided she'd start eating. Slowly, as if to not disturb a plane full of sleeping babies, she delicately pulled open the seat pocket in front of her. Peering down into it, she retrieved an unidentified brown paper bag. Ever so gingerly, she set it atop her lap and slowly and carefully, Crummy opened the sac and lowered her overly wide hand down into it. Slowly still, her hand emerged from the bag with a small fragment of an egg sandwich. Odd. This coming too, from a fellow egg lover. As the morsel made contact with her lips, a shower of flaky crumbs were released into thin air, most of which landed on Crummy's chest and belly, but copious amounts of which also ended up in my lap. She released a satisfied moan, which startled me at first and then frankly, pissed me off. I leaned forward and looked directly at her - yet another universal symbol for "what you're doing is disturbing me" - and simultaneously, began brushing her egg crumbs off of my lap in aggressive and dramatic motions. Crummy didn't waver. Instead, she began to brush the crumbs from her bosom in my direction, causing even more to land on my undeserving lap, and then, to actually grab hold of the fabric on her blouse and do a sort of fan flick action several times, sending the remaining chunks flying. My best horrified face and most noticeable sweeping gesture was no match. I knew that if ever a time to truly master the art of unspoken body language and gestures was needed, it was now. I produced one last really mad face, craning my neck to stare her in the face. She needed to know how badly I thought her behavior. Crummy noticed my glare, smiled big and reached forward for the brown bag.
I gave up. She couldn't be bothered. She was in some sort of trance or possibly was heavily medicated. The latter, actually making the most sense.
Crummy continued this charade for the better part of an hour - the same slow and careful process, each bite emerging from the brown sac tinier than the prior and each time releasing a sigh of delight and a mist of egg flake - at which point she had finally consumed all that there was of this vile egg sandwich. She retreated back into her chair as if to take a siesta from all the hard work, but not before one final victory catapult of egg morsels into my now stained and completely beaten-down lap.
It was the worst recorded air travel account to date. And despite my trepidation, here's to getting ready to hop on the flight back home. For the love of God, I will be avoiding the middle seat.
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