Well, since I last wrote of the dangers and trials of walking the dog at 5:30AM, several new ones have cropped up. Friday morning, I was blearily staggering along through the park waiting for Sancha to find the perfect spot for her morning constitutional when a gentleman (30s, big guy)sitting on a park bench signalled to me. I stopped. "So," he began in a thick West Indian accent. Then he cut right to the point. "You and me. When are we getting married?"
Have I been flirting with and dating this man before my consciousness (and taste) could step in to protect me? How long has this been going on? How far have we gotten? Am I seeing other people?
Granted, it's possible that he was just a drunken chauvinist hornball--but he was also a drunken, chauvinist hornball alone in the park with me, so my response (again, receiving none of the benefits of my postnoon prudence or wit) was not probably a good idea. The exchange went as follows:
Horny chauvinist or secret (to me) boyfriend: So, you and me. When we gonna get married?
Me (completely ingenuous, not being a smartass): Ummmm....never?
Worst part is, I had to walk back by him once Sancha had found her Urinary Eden. I was hoping that he was drunk enough to confuse her with a very fierce German Shepherd.
As we got back to the building, I was pretty much awake and rationally thinking about my possible past and future REM-cycle relationships, so I took particular notice of the gorgeous guy who I see most mornings at the bus stop in front of my apartment. He is gorgeous. Did I mention that? And friendly, always says hello, good morning. And clearly gainfully employed (why else would he be waiting for the bus at 5:45 every day), yet not a slave to the Man (stylish conservative dress, but no suit and tie), and....gorgeous. Adorable intellectual spectacles. And all of a sudden it occurs to me--now that I'm thinking of my Sancha walks in a whole new romantic-opportunity light--that he sees me every day in my pyjamas, which is a big T-shirt and sweats. The same big T-shirt and sweats for at least a week at a time. Does he think I have only one pair of clothes? How can I casually mention that these are my pyjamas ("good morning, I have other clothes, have a nice day")? And do I want to--thus dispelling the image of me walking the dog early so I can rush off to my own fulfilling, high-powered job. Why am I beginning to sound like Elaine in a Seinfeld episode? Why can't my dog just sleep in?