Last night I was in the car with Gary when we passed a runner who looked extremely tired.
Gary nodded toward the runner and said, "Is it just me or does it seem like she's having a lot of trouble keeping her arms up?"
I agreed; it was not just Gary. She seemed to have completely lost control of her arms, which were waving behind her in the wind like so many wet noodles as she trudged up the sidewalk. I sat there thinking about how if I were in as great shape as that girl, perhaps I too could get away with wearing obscenely short shorts and performing a physical activity in front of strangers without embarrassing myself and/or/by passing out. I was just beginning to consider the benefits of being flat chested when my train of thought was disrupted by a comment from my husband.
"Gary, if I've asked you once, I've asked you a hundred times; please don't call me that."
"No, dude. DUDE."
"What the - ohhhhhhh. Dude."
It took me a moment to decipher his subtle yet persistent nods toward the runner, who, as it turns out, was not a girl*, but in fact a very skinny dude...which I guess explains the flat-chestedness.
What it does not explain is the shorts.
*Not yet a woman.