It’s hot, hot, hot outside, in the mid-nineties, and people are still out on runs and walks past my window, where I can watch them unseen, as they float by, scantily clad. I would say that I wished I was out there with them, but when it is that hot, I melt, and my ankle is still fragile. (My half hour on the treadmill hurt today.) When I’m lucky, the cross-country team runs by. You can tell them by their attire. Men in black shorts (short shorts, not tights) with no shirt, blasting by at a pace that I could only dream about. Occasionally, there is one woman with them, and sometimes another further back. The ladies team also runs by sometimes, but their attire is less rigid – black running briefs with either a red or white running sports bra.
I didn’t run on the college team, but in high school the dress code was much more prim. Red shorts – tighter and shorter than men’s, but not tights. The tops were knit fitted t-shirts. No bare shoulders. They didn’t show much, but at least we looked like women, even the tall flat-chested ones, like me. I was going to try to find you a pic, but that would require too much effort. I’m safe in saying that my senior yearbook didn’t show any members of the ladies team. Let’s just say that we looked more like a volleyball team.
So what does that have to do with the title of this piece? Very little actually. I suppose the showing aspect, I guess. That’s stretching it. I certainly show more when I run now than I did back then, but not nearly as much as the lithe lasses that sprint by here these days. I confess that I watch them as much as the men. They are frickin’ amazing! I was fast in HS. I was even fast in college. (But not that fast!) Our college VP saw me run an obstacle course during our May Day games – I hurdled the high jump bar when most just knocked it over. He told me I should have been on the track team. That showed me a little love at a time when I wasn’t getting much.
I seem to be reminiscing a lot lately, when I should be talking about sex. That’s why I’m here. Right?
Another thing that this reminded me of was my boyfriends in HS and college … and grad school … and …
They were very good at telling me that they loved me, but weren’t good at showing it. There was one that refused to use the L-word, unless I was the one. I wasn’t, but he finally did, just to humor me. At least, he was being honest. He didn’t want to be encumbered by me when he went to college. (He was older than me.)
Have I at least made it to a point? Should I stop while I’m ahead?
Oh yeah, the haiku: Desensitized