Dear Thirtysomethin' Mall Walker,
First, I appreciate your dedication to a fitness regimen, especially one that allows you to stop making laps long enough to purchase a candle the size of a tractor tire. I'm writing because your outfit was a bit unsettling to me and the other Food Court patrons. No, not because you'd wriggled yourself into spandex Under Armour separates that covered you from collarbone to calf--who among us doesn't dig seeing a woman in garments tight enough to showcase her endocrine glands? Speaking of which, we saw you ovulate somewhere between American Eagle and Old Navy.
No, Slim Goodbody, it's just that if you require a sweat-wicking fabric for an activity you can perform while simultaneously sipping an Orange Julius, perhaps you have some other issues that need to be addressed. Like a thyroid problem.
Dear Guy Who Shouted Out His Car Window At Me While I Was Running,
I always appreciate it when passing drivers take the time to roll down their windows to yell at me, especially when it involves such subtle turns of phrase like "Don't stop, Saddlebags!" or "RUN, FORREST, RUN!" or "Stop pissing in my yard!". Your thoughtful suggestion to "Get on the fuckin' sidewalk!" yesterday was a new one, especially since the quiet residential neighborhood you were speeding through doesn't even have sidewalks, a detail you might have noticed if you could've seen through the giant American flag decal pasted on the rear window of your Isuzu Trooper.
Ignoring for a moment the subtle conflict between your Dollar General patriotism and your rusted Japanese car, let's focus instead on the reason why you'd be racing a qualifying lap down this street lined with swingsets and SLOW signs. It had to be something special, like the arrival of those gladiolus bulbs you'd ordered or because the library called to tell you that the Pearl S. Buck anthology was now available.
But back to your sticker. "These Colors Don't Run", it said. And from the look of the fleshy, fluid-retaining middle finger you extended in my direction, neither do you. Regardless, I understand your hurry and I apologize for making you swerve from the straight line you'd been driving down the center of the road. Had you not shown me the error of my ways, you would've spent the rest of the afternoon peeling pieces of me off your Bug Shield instead of savoring the saffron risotto you'd so lovingly prepared for your evening meal.
Admittedly I returned your gesture, although it wasn't evident since my little paws were swaddled in fleecy GapKids mittens so it probably looked like I was challenging you to some Far and Away-style fisticuffs. Not that you noticed, since you were probably lost in your own personal interpretation of the Jupiter Symphony.
Yours in Christ,
Dear Amanda Overmyer,
Your hair looks like Michigan's football helmet.
You either need to buy more toilet paper or install a bidet.