I keep trying to write a post about an experience I had on my run yesterday, but words are failing me.
No, random stranger, you don’t get to interrupt my run to start a conversation with me. I don’t owe you that. I’m sure you’re a nice guy (actually, I’m 89% sure you’re a “Nice Guy”), but no. Don’t approach women you don’t know on the street and attempt to chat them up. Ours is a nation where violence against women is all too common. I highly doubt you had any such nefarious plans, but my safety is not something I will gamble with (you might have subconsciously picked up on this since I was stopped at a light, waiting for it to change when you invaded my space).
I don’t know you and I don’t owe you anything, including a conversation.
I have been approached by strange men for at least half my life. What is it about me that these men think they’ll be able to pick me up as I’m walking or running along? Just because I am a woman and I happen to be propelling myself along a paved road does not in fact mean that I am a streetwalker. Or looking for attention. Or interested in you talking to me.
Having been raised in part by a transplanted Midwest farm boy, I have compulsive drive to be friendly to strangers (and as a native daughter of Seattle, I was born with two cold shoulders- one of my countless personality dichotomies that make me slightly difficult to be around). This situation got in my head for about a mile because I felt guilty for not acknowledging him; cold, hard, blank stare aside. But then I thought about it, and came to the bolded conclusion above. I’d rather be a bitch than statistic.
On a happier note:
I got to finish my run in a light Spring-y rain, on a dirt trail, listening to Social D sing about how this is the story of his/our/my life. It was a beautiful end to my run. So perfect that I even busted out the foam roller again. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore. (;