We pull up to a stoplight on Sunday, chatting about this and that. As we’re waiting, a guy runs up; he’s working out, but misses the light. I do a double-take because, well, the guy is practically naked. He’s lean, muscled, obviously a regular runner, and wears ….. God help me, I do not know. They’re running shorts, but shorter; they’re boxer shorts but tighter; they’re tighty whiteys but with a flounce. Or something? Whatever they are, they’re very low-riders and a manly aqua. On his feet, these silvery ballet-like slippers.
While he waits for the light, he prances and sashays. Spins and leaps. He doesn’t stay in one spot politely jogging in the typical compact way you see runners do.
Oh, no. He’s a stoplight Nureyev, dahling, and he
uses
his
stage.
It’s mesmerizing. Distracting. Basically, I can’t look away.
MB, on the other hand, sighs in exasperation.
“Oh, for the love of Europe.”
One glance at his furrowed brow and I howl the whole way home.
Dying!!!!!
Comment by sheila — February 2, 2010 @ 3:15 am
LMAO!!!
Comment by GradualDazzle — February 2, 2010 @ 4:59 am
I’m sorry. I think we can all agree that “Oh, for the love of Europe” is the new phrase to say in these situations.
I start laughing just writing it and hearing MB’s tone.
Hahahahahahaha.
Comment by tracey — February 2, 2010 @ 8:16 am
LOL. New favorite.
Comment by sarahk — February 2, 2010 @ 1:02 pm
Only in your neck of the woods, T.
Comment by Kate P — February 2, 2010 @ 5:22 pm
Kate P — VERY true. Hahahahaha.
Comment by tracey — February 2, 2010 @ 6:09 pm
Not the intent, but now I have the song The Final Countdown playing incessantly in my head.
Comment by Cullen — February 3, 2010 @ 7:07 am
Love this!
Comment by Cara Ellison — February 3, 2010 @ 10:22 am