...Is the hardest to sit out.
Braving the cooler, fall-like weather, Sage and I begrudgingly walked toward victory. Be advised that my victory equates to: me+man= happily ever after while Sage’s victory equates to: him+squirrel=death. While seemingly opposite in equation theory (?), some might say that they are abstractly the same. Nevertheless, Sage was resilient; be it cold whether or a cat on the sidewalk he was on a mission- a mission forward. I, on the other hand, awkwardly strutted out of my condo in a double-layer black and green tight tank top with a pair of black yoga/fat girl pants (the kind that make you feel its okay that your thighs rub together). Since it was the first day, I went all out with my makeup. And by that I mean I smeared on some mascara and caked on what was left in the tube of fall-colored foundation to “highlight” my sun-kissed complexion.
Sage and I trekked the Mill City route along the Mississippi River, focusing on the boardwalk section near the Stone Arch Bridge: A.K.A. the prime real estate of the dog walking world— #hottiewithanottiebodyrealestate. Passing the couples taking engagement pictures against the crumbling stone walls, hugging the chalked heart with “i do” scribbled inside, I began to wonder: Where are all the guys? Seeing the available running companions made me regret wearing a fresh pair of yoga pants when I had several dirty ones just sitting in the closet. Finally, after 10 mins of walking, a woman in a wheelchair asked “What kind of dog is that?” I answered: “He’s a mutt”. And while I wanted to be bitchy and short, I remained polite with the hope that she had a HOTT lawyer son at home just waiting for me. If not, with her inquisition I learned that at least the disabled population was most likely on our side. If only this project started while my disabled Great Aunt was alive, Sage and I would be riding up and down the stairs on an automatic chair.
I switched routes halfway through when I saw a well dressed guy throwing a Frisbee for a French Bulldog. I strutted, yes, strutted with hips extended, past him just enough to be able to look back and say “You’ll regret teaching him when he becomes obsessed.” He acknowledged, but remained distant as if to say, “You’re pretty, but I’m gay” ….or at least that’s my story.
The only hot guy on our first walk seemed to emerge from out of the concrete within the last 5 blocks. He was young, just pushing 28, wearing a Twins jersey, baseball cap and shorts, and standing on a corner. I looked, then looked away, looked again and smiled. He looked (loved what he saw) and smiled, then he continued the conversation with, presumably, his parents. Rule #27:never date someone who still lives with the parents. There goes all the guys in New Jersey. I didn’t have the time to inquire if the hottie was in fact a basement baby, but judging by their coordinated outfits, it was a safe bet. To your pleasure the story continues since moments later he walked a block and met me at another light (by himself). While the gesture was appreciated, I was over him. Everyone knows a block can either make or brake an ONS and this block broke him. The only positive interaction came from the valet men at the local hotel. Must remember to go back there on the next walk…
Sage and I trekked the Mill City route along the Mississippi River, focusing on the boardwalk section near the Stone Arch Bridge: A.K.A. the prime real estate of the dog walking world— #hottiewithanottiebodyrealestate. Passing the couples taking engagement pictures against the crumbling stone walls, hugging the chalked heart with “i do” scribbled inside, I began to wonder: Where are all the guys? Seeing the available running companions made me regret wearing a fresh pair of yoga pants when I had several dirty ones just sitting in the closet. Finally, after 10 mins of walking, a woman in a wheelchair asked “What kind of dog is that?” I answered: “He’s a mutt”. And while I wanted to be bitchy and short, I remained polite with the hope that she had a HOTT lawyer son at home just waiting for me. If not, with her inquisition I learned that at least the disabled population was most likely on our side. If only this project started while my disabled Great Aunt was alive, Sage and I would be riding up and down the stairs on an automatic chair.
I switched routes halfway through when I saw a well dressed guy throwing a Frisbee for a French Bulldog. I strutted, yes, strutted with hips extended, past him just enough to be able to look back and say “You’ll regret teaching him when he becomes obsessed.” He acknowledged, but remained distant as if to say, “You’re pretty, but I’m gay” ….or at least that’s my story.
The only hot guy on our first walk seemed to emerge from out of the concrete within the last 5 blocks. He was young, just pushing 28, wearing a Twins jersey, baseball cap and shorts, and standing on a corner. I looked, then looked away, looked again and smiled. He looked (loved what he saw) and smiled, then he continued the conversation with, presumably, his parents. Rule #27:never date someone who still lives with the parents. There goes all the guys in New Jersey. I didn’t have the time to inquire if the hottie was in fact a basement baby, but judging by their coordinated outfits, it was a safe bet. To your pleasure the story continues since moments later he walked a block and met me at another light (by himself). While the gesture was appreciated, I was over him. Everyone knows a block can either make or brake an ONS and this block broke him. The only positive interaction came from the valet men at the local hotel. Must remember to go back there on the next walk…