So This One Time....

This is one of those stories that I should probably keep to myself, but if you have ever met me…or if you have read any of my previous posts, then you know I have no social filter. Onward we go then? Fantastic.

I never liked jogging. In fact, I thought it was a stupid concept. Run for no reason? Ummm is someone chasing me? No? Well then, a slow stroll should suffice. Now that I have quite a bit of time on my hands I decided to try my hand at jogging. I bought the necessary moisture-wicking tank top, arm band for my mp3 player of choice, some tennis shoes with a handy ventilation system to keep my feet from getting sweaty (ya good luck, shoes) and finally put to good use the 39 pairs of Nike shorts I have lounging about from my sorority days.

And for the past month, things have been just fine. I made friends with the bike cops that patrol the area (safety first, I always say). I even befriended the guy at the locks who has an air conditioned kiosk just in case I heat stroke one day and need a friend (probably going to happen…its Sahara hot outside). It took about a month before I could feel the solid change. Rather than pounding the pavement gasping for air, now I look much more like a graceful gazelle prancing past the tourists waiting on the river barge. Bar a small snake incident that made me look like a complete tool for squealing at a decibel only heard by dogs and kindergarten girls, my jogs have been peaceful and my evenings quiet.

Enter the hobo.

My keen sense of observation is always on full alert during my jogs. There will be no surprise attacks here (sans the snake incident…which doesn’t count because he doesn’t have feet). About a week ago my warning system was on full blast. Sirens blaring, sweat pouring, I jumped when a man said “hey there” from behind a bush. Hey bro, you look creepy behind that bush. You also look creepy because…well...you’re creepy, but it’s broad daylight and I’m feeling optimistic so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You, sir, are just a hobo.

I know plenty of hobos. There is Cigarette Lady, Dog Man, Maroon Shirt, Bike Guy Larry and now…Bush League (c’mon, those names are clever…and apropos). I live downtown and get my urban on every day. But people are people, even if they live in a box, or a bush as it were.

I thought little of my bush-dwelling friend, but decided to mention it to the officials just in case. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know what could come next, and I’m not having that. I believe in self-preservation. Despite the NRA bumper sticker my dad thought would be a hilarious joke that now elicits comments from co-workers on a daily basis, I am pretty old school on my defense tactics. Hand-to-hand combat, a solid scream….and knife throwing. Okay not really, but if you think about it knives would be the best weapon of choice in a scary movie. Why? The girl ALWAYS finds a knife, the gun ALWAYS breaks. Stabbing too close for comfort? Too bad I can throw this blade at you from a safe 10 feet distance. Oh, hey, good luck crazy killer walking all slow across the house….I just straight shanked you with my Renaissance-style skills.

Back to the bro in a bush.

The authorities were notified and I continued my evening jogs with little change until a few days ago. As I rounded the corner nearest his humble abode, I saw him standing there waving politely…..without any pants on.

Umm, excuse me, sir, I believe you forgot your pants...

Oh, you didn’t forget them? You’re just stark raving mad? My mistake. Carry on then.

Sadly, the evening ended with my friend being taken away in hand cuffs. And that, kids, is why we stay away from drugs.

Ladies and gents, though my hobos are friendly albeit unclothed characters, some are not. So get out there and get your cardio on, but don’t jam so hard to Nelly that you forget the world around you. So grab your Nalgene and your Ipod…and don’t forget your throwing knives, you never know when you might need them.