For several good reasons I don't talk to women when I cross paths with them on a trail or on the street in town. But the other day I might have overdone this: a runner crossed paths with me on a narrow dirt road, and I didn't even exchange brief pleasantries with her, make eye contact, or otherwise acknowledge her existence.
Soon I got back to my van and found her vehicle parked next to mine. I was appalled!
A black truck! With the windshield facing south! It was perfectly clean -- how does she do that?, by spending money every three days at the car wash? Good heavens, she lives in a world of scalding sunlight and blowing dust. How could she be an outdoorswoman and be so detached from physical reality?
Meanwhile, a higher order of female, my dog, became quite accomplished this summer at digging 'spoons' in the dirt. They probably felt cool. She shaped them to the contours of her body. She located most of them on the leeward side of a sagebrush, for protection against the afternoon sun and howling wind.
She was so comfortable in her spoons that she would take afternoon siestas, several hours long.
So what is the moral of this story? Maybe I shouldn't feel guilty about my unfriendly and ungentlemanly behavior towards the woman runner, and just accept the fact that I have more in common with my common-sensible dog.
Soon I got back to my van and found her vehicle parked next to mine. I was appalled!
A black truck! With the windshield facing south! It was perfectly clean -- how does she do that?, by spending money every three days at the car wash? Good heavens, she lives in a world of scalding sunlight and blowing dust. How could she be an outdoorswoman and be so detached from physical reality?
Meanwhile, a higher order of female, my dog, became quite accomplished this summer at digging 'spoons' in the dirt. They probably felt cool. She shaped them to the contours of her body. She located most of them on the leeward side of a sagebrush, for protection against the afternoon sun and howling wind.
She was so comfortable in her spoons that she would take afternoon siestas, several hours long.
So what is the moral of this story? Maybe I shouldn't feel guilty about my unfriendly and ungentlemanly behavior towards the woman runner, and just accept the fact that I have more in common with my common-sensible dog.
Comments
Would you have the same reaction to the clean black truck if the owner was a man?
George