Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
A few years ago, I probably would have just turned to drinking expensive bourbon out of my coffee mug at work. I’m a little older now, though, and hopefully a little wiser. A mid-afternoon run seemed like a much better idea.
As soon as my running shoes hit the sidewalk, my mood began to lift. I’m a creature of habit, and one who functions best when my body is in its best shape. Hangovers and Taco Bell were fun in college, and still are on occasion, but I’d much rather do what I can to take care of myself these days. Younger Me would have scoffed at such a statement, but my dad died at around the age I am now. Who am I to assume that I’m guaranteed much more than he had?
After a few blocks, my breathing settles into a controlled cadence, and I’m moving at a comfortable jog. I’m definitely more of an endurance runner than a sprinter, and I tend to go with the “slow and steady” approach. I look around idly, not really seeing anything per se, but rather just blanking my mind with my eyes open. Soon, I’m in a nearby park, and stop for a moment to catch my breath.
It’s a hotter afternoon than I anticipated. Sweat is already running in rivulets down my back, and I’m grateful for the cover of the elm trees lining the park sidewalk. I have a water bottle strapped to my waist on an extremely high-fashion, masculine fanny pack (okay, maybe it’s neither of those adjectives, but I don’t care). Thank God I’m not wearing a shirt or it would be soaked already. I used to dress a little more modestly on my runs because I tend to get some attention when I’m without a shirt. It makes sense because I’m tanned and athletic, with a visible six pack and solid, thick pecs.
It's a douchebag thing to be vain, and I fully realize that, but my appearance is what it is. Women--and some very interested gay men--have stopped me to chat more than once when I was running sans top. However, I’ve since realized that I’d much rather be stopped mid-workout by a beautiful woman than stopped because I’m dying of heat stroke or drowning in sweat. No shirt has been the way to go.
I start jogging again when suddenly, someone gasps and screeches, “Moxie! Come back!”
Trying not to break stride, I look over my shoulder to see a very small black-and-white dog tearing after me, its bright pink leash dangling behind it.
I’m not afraid of dogs. In fact, I love pups. I had a few of them growing up. However, I think every runner has a natural wariness of the creatures. No matter how small they are, they can still nip at your ankles or tear up your expensive footwear.
I turn around and jog a few steps backwards, trying to train my eyes on the terrier that’s quickly approaching me. I’m ready to grab it if need be, and hopefully not get bitten in the process. However, when it’s within ten yards of me, it suddenly veers off the path, slows, and stops at the feet of a woman on a bench.
I jog up to the bench and wipe my brow when I stop, trying to catch my breath. Meanwhile, the woman is bent over and petting the dog, who seems to be sniffing her shoes. While the pup is distracted, I stoop to grab its leash, and wave at the owner who is laboriously speed-walking her way over.
“Sorry!” the middle-aged woman pants. She’s the kind who’s got full make-up on for a walk in the park, as well as matching pink velour sweats. “I thought I had the leash tied to the bench, but I guess it wasn’t as secure as I thought. Did he bite you?”
I shake my head. “No, Moxie here just chased me as I was jogging, and then decided to make a pit stop.”
“Sorry again!” the woman says as I hand her the leash. She bats her lashes at me a bit, but I pretend not to see while taking a sip from my canteen. Disappointed, she spins away with her dog beneath her arm.
“Thanks again,” she calls. “Byyeeee!”
I try not to grimace. Moxie’s mom, whatever her name is, is definitely not my type. From the back, it looks like she’s gotten some kind of plastic surgery to her butt to make it look enormous in comparison to her waist. Is that really a thing?
Then I turn back to the woman on the bench. That’s when the air whooshes out of my lungs because this woman is my type. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup that I can detect, but her features are classical, elegant, and perfect. Her lips are rosebud pink, like her cheeks, and somehow accentuate the pale blue of her wide eyes. Her hair looks to be cornsilk gold, although it’s bound up right now. Most of all, when she smiles, I can’t help but smile as well. She’s absolutely magnetic.