I didn't want to be that woman. The one who always follows the rules; the one that always takes on the law herself and reports a neighborhood incident to the police. Especially because it wasn't even my neighborhood -- I was cruising down the street one town over from mine. But as you know, I'm the neighborhood vigilante. The one that keeps an eye out for those lawless sorts that seem to permeate society these days.
Except this time, the rule being broken was a useless and horribly insane law. And was it really a law, or was it simply an urban myth that I had heard? As I watched the man run down the street, shirtless, I thought to myself, I could call the police and report him, but why? Would that serve a purpose? Maybe it would be better to simply call out the window that I'd heard it was unlawful to run through the streets without a shirt and that he better be careful. Of course, I did neither.
Instead, I sat back and watched the fine specimen of a man make his way up the street. The muscles of his back languidly contracted in the sun and beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. He had no idea that a car full of women was watching him, as his feet struck the pavement and his green shorts flapped in the wind.
And as sat there, looking out the window, I realized that it wasn't the lack of a shirt that broke the law. It was the shorts. For even on a runner such as this guy -- a man with beautifully sculpted quadriceps and divine hamstrings -- there are shorts that can be just a tad too short. And his green ones were just that.
I still didn't call the cops.
Except this time, the rule being broken was a useless and horribly insane law. And was it really a law, or was it simply an urban myth that I had heard? As I watched the man run down the street, shirtless, I thought to myself, I could call the police and report him, but why? Would that serve a purpose? Maybe it would be better to simply call out the window that I'd heard it was unlawful to run through the streets without a shirt and that he better be careful. Of course, I did neither.
Instead, I sat back and watched the fine specimen of a man make his way up the street. The muscles of his back languidly contracted in the sun and beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. He had no idea that a car full of women was watching him, as his feet struck the pavement and his green shorts flapped in the wind.
And as sat there, looking out the window, I realized that it wasn't the lack of a shirt that broke the law. It was the shorts. For even on a runner such as this guy -- a man with beautifully sculpted quadriceps and divine hamstrings -- there are shorts that can be just a tad too short. And his green ones were just that.
I still didn't call the cops.
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