See Jane run
Last night around 7:45 I went for my weekly 7k slog around the neighborhood. I have run in the dark before and usually, after my first “scary” run, concerned about tripping over twisted tree roots or stepping in steaming dog doo, I adjust. Wanting to be safe, I donned a white shirt and a white bandana, and even put on my glasses as my eyesight has diminished exponentially since this time last year (thank you post-secondary education). I grabbed my MP3 player, my digital watch (which beeps periodically and delivers and electric shock when I fall below a five minute kilometer), and headed out into the dark, praying I wouldn’t break an ankle. After a few obligatory “is it a mailbox, or is it a rapist?” moments, I got into the groove and started lamenting, as I always do at the second kilometer of seven, “when will this be over?”.
I stopped for traffic at MacKenzie and noticed out of the corner of my eye that a car had also stopped and was waiting to cross. Thinking nothing of it, I waited for a break in the yuppy onslaught of Audis and Volvos and darted across the street, with my vehicular companion following me. Running along the sidewalk I noted that the car that had crossed MacKenzie with me had not yet passed by, which was odd. I noticed then that the car was still beside me, keeping pace. Still not clueing in, because the worst acts of violence in Kerrisdale involve leaving the house before checking that one’s belt and shoes match, I assumed that the automobile occupants were looking for an address. That they were late for a brie and Pinot Gris tasting at Muffy’s house, but they weren’t sure where Muffy lived, because their son, Tad, had only been over to play with Muffy’s son, Biff, a couple of times, and that was during the summer – you remember, when the boys looked so cute in their Bermuda shorts and loafers – when it was light out, but now it was dark, and Muffy really ought to have strung up some Chinese lanterns to illuminate the way, don’t you think? Anyways, when the car had still had not pulled over or passed me, I began to think something untoward was going on. Inclining my head slightly in their general direction, I was somewhat surprised to find the car was rife, not with Tad’s family, but with three mid-twenties boys, screaming something unintelligible at me from their Honda, no less. I rolled my eyes and focused on the sidewalk, willing them to grow bored of their uninteresting prey (was it the bandana that had attracted them?) and leave. However they did not. I heard them yelling at me, but did not want to remove my headphones, because I had already learned all the fun synonyms for female body parts from Busta Rhymes over the weekend with my buddy Daryl. Unappeased, they mimicked their (not so distant) simian relatives by rolling down the windows and pounding the top of their car. It was at this point that I actually started to grow concerned. I was, after all, alone in the dark on a side street, being shadowed by three young men that were showing no signs of backing off; that in fact appeared to be increasingly agitated by my presence. I ignored them, and ran through my options. Option, rather - I had only one: go knock on someone’s door for help. Engaging in any communication with these individuals would have been pointless, since they clearly lacked the most basic knowledge such as: pounding on the roof of your car is stupid and unnecessary; and following single women for prolonged periods of time is creepy and not socially normal. After a few moments another car pulled onto the side street, sidled up behind the Honda, and reluctantly my tormentors took off. But not before screaming and beeping some more, of course.
I continued my jog and then began to wonder, would they come back? Had they darted down some alley to wait for me? Were they drunk? Had they pulled into a house that I was about to jog past? I spent the rest of my jog half-looking over my shoulder, and inspecting the make and model of every car that passed, sifting through them for the silver Honda Civic. At one point, as I jogged past an empty park I literally jumped when I saw my own shadow. I became despondent that this had happened. Daryl said “wouldn’t any decent guy(s) realize how frightening that could be and not behave that way?”. One would think. And yet it did happen, they did do it, and I was left wondering: what would’ve happened if another car hadn’t come by; and more importantly, what were they trying to accomplish?
I guess I could change my jogging route, as has been suggested to me. And no, I don’t know what exactly they said to me, so there is a possibility that I am blowing it out of proportion. God knows that if I, and two of my friends, were to roll down the window to ask a lone jogger, at night, for directions and if that jogger did not answer, I would definitely trail them, yell at them, and pound the top of my car. The point is that I shouldn’t have to change my jogging route. Changing my jogging route, or asking me what, verbatim, these losers of the gene-pool said to me, is somewhat equivalent to asking a victim of sexual abuse what she was wearing the night she was attacked: it’s irrelevant. What is relevant is that they made me uncomfortable. Why do I have to change? Why is this deemed semi-acceptable behaviour? Why does our society continue to put the onus on women to never put themselves in the most remotely precarious position? I’m not the one doing anything wrong.
A relative of mine made an extremely idiotic comment to me a couple of years ago about the way women dress. He said that men were incapable of controlling themselves around scantily clad women. I suggested that, if this was such an epidemic affecting men in such a horrible manner, that perhaps castration was the answer. This argument seems to go hand in hand with the “I had an affair because it’s in men’s nature to spread our seed far and wide” argument. Wow, I mean, it must really suck to be totally unable to control your body like that! It must make social outings utterly precarious, why, you might get whiplash when a pretty lady walks by. Or, you know, you might just feel the urge to procreate so badly that you commit a major faux pas in front of your boss at a business meeting. Give me a break. Really. Stop it, it’s tiring. It sounds like the kind of excuse Dubya makes before arbitrarily invading a country: utter bullshit.
My final argument in regards to last night’s event is this: if I had a different skin color, or if I were handicapped, and the comments undoubtedly hurled at me corresponded with my skin color/disability, it would be a pretty heinous act, correct? It would be racist and disgusting. And yet I have to jog elsewhere? So is it correct then, that black people should not jog in certain areas? Perhaps they shouldn’t use the same water fountains as us? A certain sect of people should have to change their routines to accommodate a few assholes? It’s pretty easy to see where I am going with this, n’est ce pas?
And this concludes my angry, women’s lib blog. Wanna fight about it?
I stopped for traffic at MacKenzie and noticed out of the corner of my eye that a car had also stopped and was waiting to cross. Thinking nothing of it, I waited for a break in the yuppy onslaught of Audis and Volvos and darted across the street, with my vehicular companion following me. Running along the sidewalk I noted that the car that had crossed MacKenzie with me had not yet passed by, which was odd. I noticed then that the car was still beside me, keeping pace. Still not clueing in, because the worst acts of violence in Kerrisdale involve leaving the house before checking that one’s belt and shoes match, I assumed that the automobile occupants were looking for an address. That they were late for a brie and Pinot Gris tasting at Muffy’s house, but they weren’t sure where Muffy lived, because their son, Tad, had only been over to play with Muffy’s son, Biff, a couple of times, and that was during the summer – you remember, when the boys looked so cute in their Bermuda shorts and loafers – when it was light out, but now it was dark, and Muffy really ought to have strung up some Chinese lanterns to illuminate the way, don’t you think? Anyways, when the car had still had not pulled over or passed me, I began to think something untoward was going on. Inclining my head slightly in their general direction, I was somewhat surprised to find the car was rife, not with Tad’s family, but with three mid-twenties boys, screaming something unintelligible at me from their Honda, no less. I rolled my eyes and focused on the sidewalk, willing them to grow bored of their uninteresting prey (was it the bandana that had attracted them?) and leave. However they did not. I heard them yelling at me, but did not want to remove my headphones, because I had already learned all the fun synonyms for female body parts from Busta Rhymes over the weekend with my buddy Daryl. Unappeased, they mimicked their (not so distant) simian relatives by rolling down the windows and pounding the top of their car. It was at this point that I actually started to grow concerned. I was, after all, alone in the dark on a side street, being shadowed by three young men that were showing no signs of backing off; that in fact appeared to be increasingly agitated by my presence. I ignored them, and ran through my options. Option, rather - I had only one: go knock on someone’s door for help. Engaging in any communication with these individuals would have been pointless, since they clearly lacked the most basic knowledge such as: pounding on the roof of your car is stupid and unnecessary; and following single women for prolonged periods of time is creepy and not socially normal. After a few moments another car pulled onto the side street, sidled up behind the Honda, and reluctantly my tormentors took off. But not before screaming and beeping some more, of course.
I continued my jog and then began to wonder, would they come back? Had they darted down some alley to wait for me? Were they drunk? Had they pulled into a house that I was about to jog past? I spent the rest of my jog half-looking over my shoulder, and inspecting the make and model of every car that passed, sifting through them for the silver Honda Civic. At one point, as I jogged past an empty park I literally jumped when I saw my own shadow. I became despondent that this had happened. Daryl said “wouldn’t any decent guy(s) realize how frightening that could be and not behave that way?”. One would think. And yet it did happen, they did do it, and I was left wondering: what would’ve happened if another car hadn’t come by; and more importantly, what were they trying to accomplish?
I guess I could change my jogging route, as has been suggested to me. And no, I don’t know what exactly they said to me, so there is a possibility that I am blowing it out of proportion. God knows that if I, and two of my friends, were to roll down the window to ask a lone jogger, at night, for directions and if that jogger did not answer, I would definitely trail them, yell at them, and pound the top of my car. The point is that I shouldn’t have to change my jogging route. Changing my jogging route, or asking me what, verbatim, these losers of the gene-pool said to me, is somewhat equivalent to asking a victim of sexual abuse what she was wearing the night she was attacked: it’s irrelevant. What is relevant is that they made me uncomfortable. Why do I have to change? Why is this deemed semi-acceptable behaviour? Why does our society continue to put the onus on women to never put themselves in the most remotely precarious position? I’m not the one doing anything wrong.
A relative of mine made an extremely idiotic comment to me a couple of years ago about the way women dress. He said that men were incapable of controlling themselves around scantily clad women. I suggested that, if this was such an epidemic affecting men in such a horrible manner, that perhaps castration was the answer. This argument seems to go hand in hand with the “I had an affair because it’s in men’s nature to spread our seed far and wide” argument. Wow, I mean, it must really suck to be totally unable to control your body like that! It must make social outings utterly precarious, why, you might get whiplash when a pretty lady walks by. Or, you know, you might just feel the urge to procreate so badly that you commit a major faux pas in front of your boss at a business meeting. Give me a break. Really. Stop it, it’s tiring. It sounds like the kind of excuse Dubya makes before arbitrarily invading a country: utter bullshit.
My final argument in regards to last night’s event is this: if I had a different skin color, or if I were handicapped, and the comments undoubtedly hurled at me corresponded with my skin color/disability, it would be a pretty heinous act, correct? It would be racist and disgusting. And yet I have to jog elsewhere? So is it correct then, that black people should not jog in certain areas? Perhaps they shouldn’t use the same water fountains as us? A certain sect of people should have to change their routines to accommodate a few assholes? It’s pretty easy to see where I am going with this, n’est ce pas?
And this concludes my angry, women’s lib blog. Wanna fight about it?
posted by Duder at 4:24 PM
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