It's true; we at The Writings have dissected* the sort of folk on might encounter during a lap around their nearest park before. Nonetheless, the wonderful thing about the park is that no two trips are alike. Consider the park-goers encountered in my neighborhood this very evening...
*Not literally.
The guy looking for the gym
Whenever one goes out to do any sort of activity that might be considered exercise (running, walking, biking, army crawling, weightlifting, chasing one's shadow, hiding from gypsies, or spinning until one becomes dizzy), it seems one is always bound to encounter a muscle-bound person that looks like they went to GNC and purchased an Everything Basket. From television and film, I gather some of these Herculean folks think a clever way to impress those of the female variety is to ask them "Which way to the gym?"*
*I have never tried this. Reasons: 1) It's creepy; 2) I have little muscle to speak of; 3) I look younger than my age. So young that the female hearing this query would probably direct me toward the jungle gym... Oooh, monkey bars!
This evening, I encountered such a Hans-and-Franz-ian individual. He walked with a menacing stature, wearing a cutoff shirt to alert everyone that he was, in fact, strong. Sadly for this fellow, the "Which way to the gym?" question would not have worked out well, as he was carrying two dumbbells with him on his stroll. Some might say this is a method to help gain strength as one walks. I like to think he left the gym and forgot how to get back.
"No, seriously, which way to the gym? They know I have these dumbells and I don't want to have to pay for them."
The guy looking for the fridge
The title of this one is misleading. I'm not referring to any folks that might be large in stature and candidates for the next season of The Biggest Loser. No, the man I'm referring to looked like a refrigerator repairman. This silver-haired gentleman enjoyed his evening constitutional while wearing a dirty t-shirt, dirty jeans, and aviator sunglasses that have surely been around since the last time they were in style. I cannot confirm that he had a wrench in his back pocket, but as he meandered around the park's perimeter, he almost seemed like he was searching for something - something like the house he was supposed to be completing a service call at.
The guy with a tattoo in an unfortunate location
As I journeyed around the municipal recreation area, several joggers zipped past me at different times. Did I feel silly sauntering down the sidewalk when so many folks were getting in touch with their inner Prefontaine? No. I despise running. It's horrible. I really, really cannot stand it. (Editor's note: This anti-running rant carried on for approximately 2,387 more words. In the interest of reader wellness, we have eliminated the rest.)
The joggers that went by came in all shapes in sizes - big and small; round and stick-like; dogless and dogful - but only one made me stop to ponder his sanity. As I walked northward on the west end of the park, a figure zipped past me without warning. I was listening to my iPod and pondering what life would be like with discernable skills; therefore, I heard no approaching footsteps. As the figure took off past me, I noticed it was some guy lacking a shirt. Whether he wore no shirt as a fashion choice or a product of the recession was unclear, but one thing was not: his lower back. There, at the L-5 vertebrae, was ink on skin creating some sort of design that I did not bother to commit to memory. Like so many Hollywood starlets and college-aged females, he had a tattoo on his lower back.
Unfortunately for this guy, he apparently is not aware of the following rule: tattoo on a girl's lower back - okay; tattoo on a guy's lower back - odd and disturbing. Unfortunately, I spent the rest of my walk around the park pondering why this guy would get the ink-needle treatment on this area of his body. Was it a fraternity prank while he was passed out? Is his idol Angelina Jolie? Was it as the result of a pinkie-swear with his BFF? I probably should have asked, but catching up with him would have involved running.
*Not literally.
The guy looking for the gym
Whenever one goes out to do any sort of activity that might be considered exercise (running, walking, biking, army crawling, weightlifting, chasing one's shadow, hiding from gypsies, or spinning until one becomes dizzy), it seems one is always bound to encounter a muscle-bound person that looks like they went to GNC and purchased an Everything Basket. From television and film, I gather some of these Herculean folks think a clever way to impress those of the female variety is to ask them "Which way to the gym?"*
*I have never tried this. Reasons: 1) It's creepy; 2) I have little muscle to speak of; 3) I look younger than my age. So young that the female hearing this query would probably direct me toward the jungle gym... Oooh, monkey bars!
This evening, I encountered such a Hans-and-Franz-ian individual. He walked with a menacing stature, wearing a cutoff shirt to alert everyone that he was, in fact, strong. Sadly for this fellow, the "Which way to the gym?" question would not have worked out well, as he was carrying two dumbbells with him on his stroll. Some might say this is a method to help gain strength as one walks. I like to think he left the gym and forgot how to get back.
"No, seriously, which way to the gym? They know I have these dumbells and I don't want to have to pay for them."
The guy looking for the fridge
The title of this one is misleading. I'm not referring to any folks that might be large in stature and candidates for the next season of The Biggest Loser. No, the man I'm referring to looked like a refrigerator repairman. This silver-haired gentleman enjoyed his evening constitutional while wearing a dirty t-shirt, dirty jeans, and aviator sunglasses that have surely been around since the last time they were in style. I cannot confirm that he had a wrench in his back pocket, but as he meandered around the park's perimeter, he almost seemed like he was searching for something - something like the house he was supposed to be completing a service call at.
The guy with a tattoo in an unfortunate location
As I journeyed around the municipal recreation area, several joggers zipped past me at different times. Did I feel silly sauntering down the sidewalk when so many folks were getting in touch with their inner Prefontaine? No. I despise running. It's horrible. I really, really cannot stand it. (Editor's note: This anti-running rant carried on for approximately 2,387 more words. In the interest of reader wellness, we have eliminated the rest.)
The joggers that went by came in all shapes in sizes - big and small; round and stick-like; dogless and dogful - but only one made me stop to ponder his sanity. As I walked northward on the west end of the park, a figure zipped past me without warning. I was listening to my iPod and pondering what life would be like with discernable skills; therefore, I heard no approaching footsteps. As the figure took off past me, I noticed it was some guy lacking a shirt. Whether he wore no shirt as a fashion choice or a product of the recession was unclear, but one thing was not: his lower back. There, at the L-5 vertebrae, was ink on skin creating some sort of design that I did not bother to commit to memory. Like so many Hollywood starlets and college-aged females, he had a tattoo on his lower back.
Unfortunately for this guy, he apparently is not aware of the following rule: tattoo on a girl's lower back - okay; tattoo on a guy's lower back - odd and disturbing. Unfortunately, I spent the rest of my walk around the park pondering why this guy would get the ink-needle treatment on this area of his body. Was it a fraternity prank while he was passed out? Is his idol Angelina Jolie? Was it as the result of a pinkie-swear with his BFF? I probably should have asked, but catching up with him would have involved running.
No comments:
Post a Comment