Dear Count Creepula (aka the spooky man who appears like a ghoul on my morning runs, clutching his genitals and squinting at me through his one good, non-glass eye):
Your appearance each morning as I attempt to “exercise”* was at first simply noted. Ah! I thought, another intelligent soul who has realized both the importance of light cardio and the greater importance of exercising outdoors EARLY in the Carolina summer heat (for more on how the heat has tripped me up in the past, see this). I raised my single free hand (the other busy clutching desperately at my dog’s leash because she is in much better shape than I am) in a genial, heavy-breathed, sweaty wave.
Not only did you NOT wave back (you fucking Yankee… yeah, I saw your shitty Dodge Omni in the driveway with a Jersey plate… didn’t your mother teach you any goddamn manners at carpet-bagging school?), but you stopped dead in your spooky shuffle of crazy, spun slowly as I passed, and eyed me up with the same disturbing zeal as a fat boy at the deep-fryer booth at the county fair. We were all of 8 feet away from each other. Did you not think I would, oh, you know, NOTICE that you were considering how good I’d look stuffed and mounted in your dungeon of pain next to the cheerleader and the homeless goth girl, other recent acquisitions?
When I was “jogging” ** back to the safety of my home, did you think it was really fucking necessary to be standing rooted to the same spot, hand leisurely scratching your genitals, glass eye trained on my advancing form, ear wax dribbling a gooey rivulet down your left cheek in excitement? Further, did you really think that NOW was the appropriate time to return my wave? With the same hand that had just been plumbing the depths of your musty trousers?
I hope you were able to read into my wince of disgust as I blundered on by how much I was really intent on keeping you on my radar. I am assuming you didn’t attempt vocal contact, since my ears were filled with the dulcet tones of Fergie belting out the imperative chorus of “My Humps.” *** Yes, this juxtaposition was disturbing beyond all measure. In any case, rest assured, your presence was noted. And made me feel stabby.
So, next time you feel the need to ogle a red-faced nearly-30-year-old “jogging” with her dog at 7 AM, just remember… First of all? I know where you live, dumbass, since you stand outside your scary ramshackle torture chamber each day. Also?
I will fucking cut you.
Sincerely,
Sorcia McNasty
PS I WILL FUCKING CUT YOU.
* In this context, “exercise” means: “jiggidy jogging at the pace of a land crab, praying that somehow the movement of my flab will help displace the Five Guys Cheeseburger I consumed the night prior”
** In this context, “jogging” refers to: the act of simultaneously wheezing, trying to keep my floppy ponytail out of my sweat drenched face and loping in a sad effort to keep up with my small rat terrier. Of course she runs faster than me. She only weighs as much as a Thanksgiving Day turkey. I, on the other hand, eat her body weight each day in a variety of snack food.
*** If this is your first time coming into contact with my fucked-up taste in music, I can only refer you to this as explanation.
Ewwwwww. Sorry, dude, that sucks. What a creepball.
@ Kathy: And it’s not like I’m prone to exercise in the first place! Capt. Creepball ain’t helping matters. Then people wonder why we have an obesity epidemic in this country…
I know! I’ve been trying to go to the gym, and where the cardio machines are, there’s a rack of tvs hanging from the ceiling, and dudes get all up in my personal space to watch some tv, and I’m like, “Uh….do you mind not standing quite so close to me while I huff and puff and jiggle my fat rolls? I’m self-conscious enough as it is, without you basically being less than an arm’s length away.” And god help the one that stood there and adjusted himself, ugh. I mean, I don’t think that was creepy on the same level as your creepy dude, but still. On the one hand, my husband adjusts himself in public, so I kind of get it. On the other hand, he doesn’t do it when he’s less-than-arm’s-length away from a complete stranger, so if he can restrain himself, I think other dudes in the gym can, too. Sweet jesus. Although, in the interests of full disclosure, I should probably admit that I don’t really like most people in general, and really like my personal space, especially at the gym. But at the same time, dude, one more step in my direction and you’ll be sitting on my lap to watch tv, so cut it out already.
I highly recommend a self-defense class. The one thing I remember from mine (i took it when I was about 12) was the “twist and pull/yank” move applied directly to the testicles. Good stuff.
@ Kath: See?! This is why I quit going to the gym, ironically, because I thought my little podunk neighborhood would be safer. HAH. And yeah, I feel for guys that they have a dangling wand of bacteria coated, sweaty/itchy hot mess in their downstairs, but really? I don’t want to be intimately involved in its relocation. At all.
@ Listy: hahahaha — good stuff indeed! Oh, I’m not worried. I’ve taken self-defense and kick-boxing for the past 8 years, so I’m good. My real quandry is this: It’s only ok to attack someone when they go over a line, and weirdly, the creepy guy didn’t cross one, he was just, you know, generally distrubing. If I twisted his nuts into macrame, I have the feeling that I’d be the one (however unjustly) accused of bad behavior.
oh, nightmares! nightmares!!! BLAH
out walking (cause i’d just eaten and couldn’t fathom jogging) with my two girls who were 1 & 2 and happily sitting in their pink jogging stroller when this guy jumped me. I EFFIN KICKED HIS SAD SACK INTO THE STREET OVER AND OVER. No kidding. 6 foot sumpin and probably thought he could take the fat lady trying not to let 70 lbs get away from her down the hill. Heee, we were on the hill, I had one hand on the stroller and he was toast. And as good as I feel about it, still have anxiety and it’s been a year. Now I keep all running to the track with my big ass husband next to me (mostly to motivate me so I won’t stop running…I hate running).
@ Balc: OMG, girl. New heroine = YOU. Good for you!! I have the feeling I’d react out of total outrage and just wail on anyone who fucked with me. Good to have you as an example!!
I second that OMG!!! NEVER EVER underestimate the mother bear response in a woman.
@ Balc: You’re my new heroine, too. Holy crap. You’re the bomb – I hope you know that. I mean, I have hella anxiety issues, so I know how it can be, but you should remind yourself that you THOROUGHLY handled (read: handed out a beatdown) the one twerp that tried to mess with you, so 1-statistically speaking, it shouldn’t happen again, but 2-if it did, you’d hand out an equal-sized beatdown. Man, I love you. You have no idea how much your sharing of that story is going to help me be less of a neurotic, anxious mess when I’m by myself and worried about would-be attackers. Since I always worry that being surprised would probably negate the effects of instinct, but it looks like, no, in fact, the drive to survive and protect yourself and your kids is more than enough. I think that revelation has just shaved like five years off my therapy. Wow. You are incredible. I’m glad you came out of it okay, and thanks again for sharing.
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